


Blood from a Stone

by withershins



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, M/M, Succubi & Incubi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 16:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10880208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withershins/pseuds/withershins
Summary: Sidney isnotliving out a Hellish version of The Little Mermaid, except for the parts where he kind of is.





	Blood from a Stone

**Author's Note:**

> warning for consent issues related to the use of magically enhanced lust and demonic morals
> 
> briefly contains very minor Sidney Crosby/Jack Johnson and Sidney Crosby/PK Subban elements

"Oh god—come on, please, _more_ ," the man beneath Sidney is begging already, gasping and sweaty.  His hips twitch and tremble in aborted thrusts up, but the clamp of Sidney's thighs around his waist prevents him from getting decent leverage.

"Settle down," Sidney orders breathily, knowing how the man, Grant, enjoys Sidney's current form's throaty purr—and how he enjoys being teased a little before gratification.  "You'll get more when I'm ready to give you more."

The man groans, the noise dragged shakily out of him like he's in agony, as though they both don't know he's having some of the best sex of his life right now.  "Please!  Please, please…"

"You beg very quickly," Sidney comments idly.  His magic tells him that Grant's always been quick to beg in bed, all his life, but Sidney supposes getting hit with a load of incubus lust venom hasn't helped much.

Grant's tipping towards mindless.  "Please, please, _please…_ " he moans, thrashing.  "This is hell…"

Sidney pauses the tiny, rocking swivels his hips are making.

It always amuses him a little how readily humans will to use Hell as a comparison to something awful and unbearable.  As though they know anything about Hell.  Hell is lovely, if you've the temperament for it.

He gives a determined pump of his hips, hungry and ready now for this to be over with, abruptly done with the game.  Grant's eyes cloud over with renewed lust.

"Can I touch your hair?" he asks Sidney, as his eyes dazedly track the tips of Sidney's long auburn curls where they're brushing against his naked nipples, out of Grant's reach.  They're heavy, red curls, partially concealing small breasts—a fantasy plucked straight out of Grant's own head.  It reminds him of his high school sweetheart years ago, the one he still foolishly, guilty idealizes, which made Sidney's job of picking out a form to wear today simple.  Humans who carry guilt with their fantasies are always sweeter prey.

He rides Grant hard and fast and merciless, not letting him touch his hair because that's what Grant truly wants, to be forbidden it.  When Grant comes, a dazzling flare of human energy and emotion carelessly relinquished, Sidney greedily swallows it all.

Grant unsurprisingly wants to cuddle afterwards—a side effect of incubus venom in a human system.  He imagines himself in love with Sidney, now, but it's a false love, manufactured, and it'll be gone as soon as the venom leaves his system.

Sidney only puts up with the cuddling because he's still hungry.  He'll let Grant hold him, then he'll feed from him once more, then he'll happily head back down to Hell while Grant deals with the fallout of cheating on his girl while she's out of town visiting family.  If he decides to fess up to her that he cheated, that is.  Sidney's betting no.

It's possible an ancient lifetime as a demon has left him jaded.

Grant's memories of tonight won't be entirely clear; Sidney's magic will see to that.  The intensity and suddenness of his lust will turn hazy, as will the fervor of his feelings.  But he'll remember enough.

Sidney lets Grant enfold him against his side, lets him stroke this body's hair.  There's a bruise on Grant's ribs; Sidney entertains himself while he waits by gently prodding it and listening to Grant hiss.

"Hockey bruise," Grant says when Sidney eventually gets bored and leaves it alone.  "Guess it's still a little sore."

Sidney hums.  He knows what hockey is—he's picked up that much during his stints topside to feed—but he's never watched it played.  He doesn't have much interest in human culture.  He likes Hell and the safety it offers, and he tends to only stray from it long enough to sate his appetite.

Grant must pick up on his disinterest, because he twists his head to stare down at Sidney suspiciously.

"Not a hockey fan?" he asks, not quite hitting casual.

Sidney makes a considering noise.  "I might be, if I ever saw a game, maybe."

Sidney doesn't think he's said anything to warrant that appalled expression of Grant's, but he's been wrong before.  Humans are weird sometimes.

"What?" he asks, a little defensively.

Grant sits up in bed, dislodging Sidney from where he was tucked against him—which, fine, Sidney wasn't the one who wanted to cuddle anyway.

"You've never seen a hockey game before?" Grant says, clearly aghast.  "Do you even—does that mean you don't know who I _am_?"

"Should I?" Sidney counters.  He's growing bored, which means it's time to feed then scoot back down to Hell.  He swings up to straddle Grant, smoothing his hands—short, slim fingers this time, tidy nails—along Grant's shoulders.

"We won the Stanley Cup last year!"

"That's very nice," Sidney says indulgently as he leans in to nibble Grant's ear.

"You don't even know what the Stanley Cup is," Grant realizes despairingly.  "Oh my god."

Sidney ignores him.  The venom is still in Grant's system, will be for another few hours.   Sidney can stir it back up, so it'll only be a matter of seconds now before Grant forgets all thoughts of cups and Stanley's and anything that isn't him.

Firm hands shove, and, in utter surprise, Sidney ends up on his ass on the foot of the bed.

"Sorry!" Grant says distractedly, already clambering out of bed while Sidney can only gape at him.  "Didn't mean to push you that hard, sweetheart."  He starts yanking on a pair of underwear and blue jeans.  "Do you have anything warmer than that little coat you were wearing?"

"I…what?"

"Your coat."  Grant nods to the red coat Sidney had conjured for himself before making contact with Grant, the coat now lying abandoned on the floor.  "Never mind," he says a second later, scrambling into a long-sleeved cotton shirt.  "You can borrow something of mine.  Hurry, get dressed.  I want to take you somewhere."

"But what about sex?" Sidney manages.  This is impossible—Grant should be on the bed, unable to do anything but fuck and beg.

"When we get back, eh?" Grant reassures him, barely even pausing in his search for socks.  With a glance he realizes Sidney's still sitting on the bed naked.  "What are you waiting for?"  He flashes a grin.  "You'll love this, promise."

Sidney's bewilderment is the only reason he allows himself to be bullied into a mixture of his clothes and Grant's.  And it's the only reason he lets Grant, once they're both deemed warmly dressed enough, to bundle him out into the frigid Canadian winter.

Grant hands him up into the cab of his beat-up truck and gives him a warm smile.

"A girl as incredible as you are isn't allowed to have flaws.  And not liking hockey is definitely a flaw."  He shuts the door.

It was bewilderment that got Sidney out here, but it's curiosity that keeps him.  Grant just bucked a full load of venom that had already taken root—bucked it like it was nothing.  It's possible, theoretically, to break an incubus's hold with pure enough human emotion, love bright and real, but he's never come across that sort of love in all his years.  That he possibly has now, and that it's possibly a pure love of fucking _hockey_ that's broken Sidney's hold on Grant, is hilarious.  It's hilarious enough to wipe aside any sting of failure, at least, and intriguing enough to keep him here for now.

The sun sets as they drive, the world still and frozen.  Grant holds Sidney's hand, his other on the wheel, and Sidney reassures himself with the thought that at least his hold hasn't been entirely broken.  He still has some sway on Grant, even if hockey has somehow managed to take priority for now.

"Where are we?" Sidney asks when they finally park in what looks to be a vast, empty lot.

Grant grins at him, a child's bright-hearted joy.  "You'll see. C'mon, no one else should be here right now."

Sidney discovers hockey that frozen night in Canada's winter, leftover ice beneath his borrowed, shaky skates.  Grant's brought them to an empty rink, the one his team plays on, and he coaxes Sidney out onto the coldness to learn about his greatest love.

Sidney's awful.  At first he can barely skate, just takes little shuffles in circles around the rink with a death grip on Grant's arm.  He's not sure how he feels about the ice; the little threads of Hell he carries in his soul, the way all demons carry a little wherever they go, certainly don't like the ice, hissing and restless in his chest.

But soon he picks up on how to glide rather than shuffle, and he begins to learn the nature of the ice, and something inside him falls quiet and focused and anticipatory.

Grant, indulgent, puts a stick in Sidney's hand and a puck at his feet.

"Let's see what you can do, eh?"

What Sidney can do is not much, not yet.  But there's an icy hum of eagerness, cold and clean, that starts up inside him, a spark in his black soul that he's never experienced in all his thousands of years of living.

"Wait until you see an actual game," Grant says, grinning at Sidney's obvious delight.  "It's like nothing else in the world."  His smile turns a little shyer.  "You should come to one of ours.  This weekend?  I can get you tickets."

It's the incubus venom that's put that hope and longing in Grant's voice.  Sidney doesn't care.

"I'll come.  I'd love to."

Sidney goes to their game, but he doesn't ever go back to Grant.  He got all he needed from him.

After that, it feels like there's no going back.  Sidney starts spending more and more time on Earth—more there than in Hell.  He goes to all the games he can, tickets filched remorselessly from humans hazy from his venom so he can get the best seat.  He learns to skate, and then to play, and then to find pick-up games and insinuate himself into them without suspicion.

Sidney's kind can't fall in love; demons are creatures without empathy, and their emotions are weak and fleeting, lukewarm at best.  They're shallow bowls, not made for passions.  There's no room in them for great swells of emotion, whether it be rage or malice or love.

Sidney thinks if he were capable of love, he'd fall in love with hockey.

But demons aren't allowed human lives.  They're visitors to Earth, at best, and, sooner or later, too much time spent in the humans' realm is bound to draw the wrong sort of attention.

 

"What are you doing?"

The voice rings out across a middle-of-the-night empty rink, quiet but clear, a voice to be heeded.  Sidney knows in an instant that it belongs to no human.  Stifling a groan, he ducks his head and keeps tying his laces.

"Demon.  What are you doing?"

Again Sidney doesn't answer.  With angels, it's best to flush them out into the open before engaging.

Right on cue, Sidney hears the creak and sizzle of earthly matter being bent to holy will, and a figure manifests in front of him, an ethereal being of light that could only be confused with a human if one were wearing sunglasses.  And squinting a lot.

**"Answer me."**

Sidney rolls his eyes.  "Angelic ire," he scoffs, finishing his skates and finally looking up.  "Spare me.  The only thing easier to raise is a righteous man's dick."

The angel's divine light softens, the heavenly glare lessening until Sidney can comfortably look upon his face—it's one he recognizes.  He flashes the angel a smile, fake-human eyes bright.

"My favorite angel.  I've missed you, Claude.  Where've you been the past few decades?  Usually you ride my ass so hard I think you want a human dick of your own."

Long ago, Sidney had made Claude fail his first ever angelic assignment.  It hadn't been anything personal at the time.  Sidney had just needed to feed, and his prey had happened to be someone destined to create some big masterpiece of sculpture or architecture or something—a masterpiece Claude had been charged with ensuring was completed.  Instead, the human had become briefly obsessed with Sidney, who he'd thought was a foreigner from across the sea, hopped on a boat to chase after him, and then had drowned in the ensuing shipwreck.  The masterpiece was never created.

And that was just the beginning of what's been centuries of professional differences between the two of them.

"Sidney," Claude sighs.  "Of course it's you I've been sent after.  Always a pleasure," he adds, tone light and as mocking as an angel ever lets themself get.  "Listening to your weak attempts at blasphemy are the highlights of my centuries."

"Glad to amuse.  Gotta admit I'm confused why you're here, though."  Sidney gestures towards the empty rink.  "No humans around right now for you to protect from my wily sinful ways."

"I've been sent with a warning.  I'm sure you can guess what it's about."  Claude's shining eyes lift around the rink, taking it in with an unreadable expression.  "I honestly didn't expect you to be the idiot demon spending so much time on Earth, but given our history, I can see why I was the one sent."  His eyes land on Sidney again and narrow.  "Are you _trying_ to get in trouble?  You know what you're doing isn't allowed."

Of course it isn't.  Demons aren't allowed human lives or human pleasures.  Even sex is just feeding to Sidney's particular brand of demon, void of the exquisite ache it supposedly is for humans.  Can't let demons have any fun.  He'd hoped his hockey was minor enough to slip under the radar, but apparently not.

Sidney stands, brushes past Claude, and steps out onto the rink.  Claude follows, hovering a few inches off the ice.  Sidney lets his legs carry him in easy glides that have now become thoughtless.  "It's just hockey," he says at last.  "I'm not sure what there is about it for Heaven to get upset about."

"Why do you bother?" Claude asks, trailing after him, eyes on his skates.  Surprisingly there's no hostility in his voice, only curiosity.  "No matter what you can make it look like, your body isn't human.  It doesn't experience physical pleasure or pain like they would.  Why keep coming back?"

Sidney takes a lazy, sweeping curve and, seeing no purpose in wasting energy dissembling, answers truthfully.

"Does it matter?  I like the sound of skates, the slice, the speed.  I like the smell of the ice.  I like the puzzle of the game, unraveling the other team's defense and halting their offense.  It's…both frustrating and intriguing how there are elements of the game I can control and some I can't."  He spares a glance at the angel's face and wets his lips.  "You look confused."

"Your kind is shallow.  Your interests beyond survival are brief.  This hobby of yours shouldn't have lasted longer than a day or so."

Sidney stops abruptly, turning his skates the way it took him hours of observation and practice to learn to do.  He feels a small twist of satisfaction at the spray of snow that catches Claude before it can be willed out of existence.

"Look, why does it matter?  Why does Heaven care?  I'm not hurting anyone.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I've been feeding less often these days, which you guys should be all for.  So what does it matter if I have a hobby?"

Claude's expression doesn't change.  "Does it matter why Heaven cares?  All you need to know is that it's forbidden."

"Or what, you'll banish me from here?  All that'll do is send me down to Hell.  I'll be back up within a week, and there are plenty more rinks to pick from."

Claude's light brightens, a warning flare.  "I've been given authority to use permanent force if you don't comply.  You're threatening the balance, and that puts you under our jurisdiction."

Sidney feels true fear very rarely.  Demons learn very quickly how to avoid serious trouble, the rare dangers that can permanently end their kind.  So he has insufficient experience to mask the sweep of terror that fills him at Claude's measured statement—but he does his best to hide it, if only to stop that disgusting spark of pity he sees reflected in the angel's gaze.

"You've been given smiting license?  Are you serious?"

"For use against this, yes.  If you persist."

"Over _hockey_?"  It's insane.  Sidney's the first to admit he doesn't always understand the rules Heaven follows.  Angels are balance-keepers; they safeguard the balance among the three planes of Heaven, Hell, and Earth, and supposedly all their rules are what keeps everything afloat.  But even he knows smiting license is only supposed to be used in dire, rare circumstances.  To grant it because a single demon is harmlessly fucking around with a human sport is absurd.

"It was deemed warranted."

The phrasing catches Sidney's attention, and his eyes narrow.  "You think it's insane, too," he accuses.

Claude twitches, almost a shrug.  He doesn't look away.  "It seems extreme.  Not my job to worry about that, though."

"It's just fucking hockey!"

"Are you going to stop or not?"

Sidney looks to his feet, his stolen skates on his fake-human legs.  The thought of never being on the ice again puts a strange tug in his soul.

Whatever, he'll get over it.  That's what demons do.  He'll spend a few weeks in Hell, back in the warmth of his home, and by the time he comes back up to feed he'll have forgotten what he even liked about the humans' sport in the first place.  It's his kind's way.

"Yeah, you win.  I'll stop.  Jesus."

Claude nods, once.  "There'll be no warning, next time," he promises, then he disappears.

Sidney lets himself dissolve away and back down to Hell.  He doesn't doubt the angel's words and has no wish to test them by sticking around.

It's fine.  Sidney's a demon.  He'll get over it.

 

Sidney doesn't get over it.  He misses hockey with a pang that doesn't fade, like he's a fucking human or something.  Demons don't yearn.  They don't daydream of the clack of a perfect tape-to-tape pass, the savage satisfaction of a puck buried in the back of a net.

Except for how apparently they _do_ , because Sidney is a demon and he can't seem to stop pining for a fucking human pastime.

He hasn't left Hell in months.  He knows he needs to soon, he can't go much longer without feeding, but he doesn't trust himself to stay away from hockey and not get himself smote like an idiot.  Maybe if he just went skating, no sticks or pucks or nets—would he get smote over that?  Probably.  Fucking angels.

He needs to feed.  He'll just have to go somewhere on Earth that doesn't have hockey and force himself to stick to it.

He goes to an island somewhere in the Pacific.  Maui.  He finds a woman on a beach, a tourist, taking a walk as she waits for sunrise.  She's on her honeymoon.  Her husband is asleep in their hotel bed, and she loves him, but she has this fantasy about sex on a beach with one of those _pretty, young island boys_ , and that makes her especially vulnerable to Sidney's venom.

With that in mind, he conjures himself a body: male (what she'll perceive as male, anyway), Hawaiian, long muscles and a pretty face, and young enough that she'll feel guilty but won't be able to resist.  He'll tell her he's 21 but she'll know that's a few years over the truth.

She's easy prey.  Within ten minutes of their supposedly chance meeting, she accepts a kiss from him and his venom starts coursing through her.  Within twenty minutes, he's eaten her out until she came apart twice, thighs clenched around his head.

"I love you," she breathes afterwards, like a holy revelation.  Sidney wrinkles his nose.

"It'll pass in a few hours," he tells her, wiping his mouth dry with the back of his hand.  He doesn't know why he tells her that.  It's true—the infatuation is always a side effect of the venom, of such intense lust—but he's never bothered telling the humans that.  It doesn't matter.  The feeling will fade either way, and Sidney will be back in Hell before it does.  His magic will take care of smoothing over any portions of the memory that seem too intense to be natural.

"Have a good vacation," he says and walks away, leaving her dazed on the sand.

Insidious, the thought pops in his head of how easy it would be to slip up north right now.  Find a rink, find a pair of skates, just for a few minutes.  Surely the angels aren't watching him _that_ closely?

"I have to say, I didn't see this one coming," a voice slinks out behind Sidney as he enters a cluster of trees just off the beach.  He twists to look over his shoulder.

It's another demon leaning against a palm tree, wearing a broad, tall body; Sidney can easily recognize the dark soul through their human veneer.  A deal-making demon, one Sidney hasn't crossed paths with before.  Deal-makers don't mix much with Sidney's kind; he has little practical experience with any.  He knows this much, that they feed off the life energy of humans, rather than sexual energy like Sidney, and their magic is bound by different rules.  Humans call them crossroad demons, though they're hardly limited to just crossroads.

"You on a hunt?" Sidney asks, uninterested in getting between another demon and their meal.

"I thought so."  The deal-maker smiles, friendly in the way of their kind, perpetual salespeople.  "Caught the scent of some truly delicious longing, figured there was a human ripe for a deal.  I followed it here."

"Oh.  I'll get out of your way, then."  He readies himself to pop up to Canada—just for an hour, he won't even skate, he'll just find a game to watch—but the other demon holds up a hand.

"Wait.  Don't be so hasty.  Or haven't you realized—the longing is coming from you?"

Sidney stills.  There's danger here; he knows this with a demon's knack for survival.  He answers cautiously, "You know as well as I do that demons don't long.  It couldn't be from me."

The other demon slinks closer, circling Sidney with a predator's prowl, taking a deep whiff as they do.  Sidney doesn't twitch.

"I think," the demon says, eyes slitted with amusement, "we both know better than that.  You want something, with a strength of longing usually beyond our kind's ability."

Sidney shifts, foot to foot.  "Maybe I do.  But there's nothing you could do for me."

"Mm, you're very certain.  Would I be here, if I didn’t think I could help you somehow?  Get you what you want?"

Doubt creeps in, and, with awful clarity, Sidney realizes this is what humans feel when a demon is reeling them in.  The cloying, sweetly poisonous little gut-twist of hope is nothing he's felt before, but it whispers—maybe.  Maybe this demon _could_ give Sidney the very thing he wants most.

This is exactly the sort of stupidity that leads to humans selling years off their lives in exchange for wealth or fame, the kind of clouding want that leaves them vulnerable to an incubus's venom.  He should leave before he does something truly foolish.

He hesitates just long enough for the other demon to smile knowingly and say, "I can help you, incubus.  I can give you back hockey—guaranteed smiting-free."

Sidney freezes.  "How do you know about that?"

"I can smell it off you.  You're just itching to get on some ice, aren't you?  I can help.  I can give you more than you ever thought possible."

"Spare me the theatrics and get to the point," Sidney snaps out, but he's hungering.  Fuck him, he's hungering.

With an inhuman grin, the demon spreads their hands outstretched and conjures a dark bubble of magic, not much bigger than a human head.  Within the bubble a vision appears, distorted but visible.  Wary, Sidney peers closer.

The vision shows a human dressed in hockey gear, bending over their stick as they wait for a black-and-white arm to drop a puck.  Beyond the human, blurred and distant, an enormous crowd watches.

Sidney doesn't recognize the human, not that he remembers, but there's something vaguely familiar about them, something in the eyes and lips and bone-sharp nose.

"What is this?" he asks, as the ref drops the puck and the human snaps it back to a blurry defenseman.

"This is the NHL, about twenty years from now."

"And the human?"

The other demon regards him with amusement.  "That's you.  Don't you recognize yourself?  Harder with human skin, I know, but look closely."

Sidney draws back, shock hitting him hard.  He scoffs, the noise harsh.  "That's what you offer?  I can't play NHL, are you crazy?  It'd draw way too much attention, the humans would notice I don't have a past like them.  They pay attention to that sort of thing when you make it to that level, c'mon, don't be stupid.  Never mind the angels would smite me before I even got that far.  If you're just here to pitch me suicide, peddle that somewhere else.  I'm not interested."

"I think you're misunderstanding," the other demon smiles, teeth bared.  "I'm not offering you the NHL.  I'm offering you a human life."

Sidney, seconds away from popping out of there, pauses.  "...What are you talking about?"

"A demon can't play in the NHL, you're right, especially not with the angels on your ass, but a human can.  I can get you born into a human body.  You'll grow up, just like any human, with a family and a history and _years_ to hone your skills.  That'll give you as fair a shot at the NHL as you'll ever find."

"You can make me human?"  Sidney's heard whispers of that sort of thing, demons born again as humans, but he never paid much attention.  It didn't affect him.

“Human in body, yes.  Your soul obviously will remain demonic, but I can change your physical energy to human...mostly human.  You'll lose your magic.  No changing your appearance or popping around the world at will.  Your kisses will still be venomous, I can't change that, and your soul will need sexual energy just as much as your body needs human food.  Other than that, you'll be completely passable as human."

"For how long?" Sidney asks to buy time, thoughts racing.

"Let's say 29 years, a nice prime number.  You work hard and you can get over a decade in the NHL with that."

"And what about the angels?  None of this does me any good if fucking Claude or whoever smites me before I make it into my teens."

"That's the best part," the demon grins.  "Angels can't kill human bodies.  Only an archangel can get clearance to do that, and I really doubt they're going to bother sending an archangel after a low-level incubus like you."

"And the cost?" Sidney asks, trying to play it casual like he's not hungering at his deepest core for this.  "What are you asking for in exchange?  You can't feed off my life force like you could a human, unless…"

"Unless you happen to be mostly human when I come to collect.  Exactly.  I come end your human life early like we agree, after you're 29, I eat the extra years, you go back to how you are now.  We both walk away happy."

Sidney stays quiet, biting his tongue to keep the _yes_ from leaping out.  He needs to think this over, not act imprudently.

"C'mon, Sidney," the demon presses.  "This is the definition of a win-win.  Don't be a fool and pass this up."

And, well.  Sidney can play at considering the offer, but his mind is already made up.  He knows it, and the other demon's oil-slick smile knows it.

"I want it in writing."

"You got it."  The demon clicks their fingers, showy like deal-makers often are said to be.  A sheaf of papers appears in Sidney's hands.

They spend the next half hour negotiating particulars—where Sidney will be born, that he wants a penis-body since that's apparently necessary for the NHL, protection against the crossroad demon trying to have him killed prematurely, and other such details.  When the contract is as finished as Sidney could wish it, he doesn't hesitate.

"All right," he says clearly.  "I agree."  And he slaps his stamp of magic, his demonic imprint, on the foot of the final page.

"Perfect."  The other demon clicks their fingers again and the contract disappears.  "Call me Samuel."

"Sidney," he offers.

"Sidney," Samuel echoes, considering.  "Would you like to keep that one when you're human?"

'Sidney' isn't his true name—true names are dangerous for anyone to give out, spoken in the Old Language—but it's the name he's gone by for the past century or so.  He's fond of it.

He nods.

"All right, Sidney it is."  Samuel's hands rub together.  "Are we doing this now?"

"No reason to wait."

"Then let's go, huh?  I'd rather not hang around on Earth if I don't have to."

Samuel draws them away to a plane just outside the borders of Hell, a nothing place, where demonic magic sings the strongest.  They both leave their human facades behind, standing in the swirling black emptiness in their true forms.

Demonic true forms aren't how most humans imagine.  They have no red-burnt skin, no stubby goat horns.  They don't have skin at all, not as humans would call it.  They are more like smoke made solid and humanoid—grey bodies of nothing humans would recognize as flesh and blood.  Their features are indistinct and undefined, liable to shift if stared at for too long.  They have no genitals—a human trapping—and no hair, and their eyes are a solid red, the only pricks of color among the grey.  Their most defined features are their noses, sharp and thin, their fingers, inhumanly spindly, and their ears, elongated and ending in a tight point.

And their horns.  They do have horns, but if animal comparisons must be made then their horns are more like an antelope's, twisted and tapered, than like a goat's.

As an incubus, Sidney's horns are something of a point of vague pride, longer and more gracefully arched than other types of demons'.  He can see Samuel eyeing them with a glimmer of envy.

"Are you ready, Sidney?" Samuel asks, eyes slinking away from Sidney's horns to meet his gaze.  His form is a lighter grey than Sidney's, and in this space it looks almost like the blue of Earth's sky.  "Any friends you want to say goodbye to first, that sort of thing?"

It's a joke, and a dull one at that.  Demons don't care enough about anyone to count them as friends.

"I'm ready."

Samuel's grin is a slice of black in this form.

"Then let's begin.  This'll hurt, but not for long.  Try not to squirm."

Samuel places a hand on Sidney's chest and begins to tug, drawing Sidney's magic from him.  Sidney's scream of pain is ripped out of him involuntarily as his magic is slowly bled from him, agony burning in the wake.  When the last drop is taken, Sidney collapses, caught at the last second in Samuel's arms.

"Well-done," Samuel whispers in his ear.  Darkness is closing around him, but Sidney tries to cling on to consciousness for a few seconds more.  "I'll see you on the other side, Sidney."

When Samuel's magic starts seeping into the nothingness, dark and damned and smelling of Hellfire, Sidney closes his eyes and welcomes it.  It's the last taste of Hell he's going to get for a while.

 

* * *

 

Sidney Patrickson is born August 7th, 1987, to a prostitute named Cynthia.  He seems to be a normal baby; he shits, he eats, he sleeps.  Even the most discerning eyes would have trouble picking out anything odd about him as a baby, and Cynthia Patrickson is too worn down by life to be discerning.  Why she kept the baby in the first place she couldn't really tell you—just that she did, and now it's him and her in her miniscule one-room apartment where she brings back her johns.

Once in a while, she does think Sidney's a little more well-behaved than she'd heard babies supposedly are, but she doesn't waste much time worrying about it.  She's just grateful he'll lie peaceably in his crib, concealed behind a flimsily hung screen, while she gets fucked on the bed.

She doesn't know why Jim let her keep the baby.  Jim's the guy who owns her apartment block—and most of the girls who live there.  He's a ruthless, mercenary son of a fuck, but he hadn't even upped her protection fee when, trembling but determined, she'd told him about the bump in her stomach.  He'd just gotten a little blank-eyed and said, "No, that's fine, you can keep him.  He won't cause any trouble."  She hadn't asked how he'd been so certain it would be a boy.

She and Sidney, they get by.  She has flashes of guilt that she's raising her little guy in a building soaked in sex and sin, but he doesn't seem to mind.  It beats the streets, anyway.

Sidney's a quiet, self-contained baby who grows into a quiet, self-contained child.  When he gets too old for her to feel comfortable keeping him in the room while she works, she starts sending him next door to Janice's, who has a two-room and will let him play in the second room if Cynthia brings her dinner first.

"He's a weird kid," Janice tells her once.  "Bit creepy, you know?  But he keeps himself entertained fine."

"Don't call my fucking kid creepy," Cynthia wants to say, but she just nods her head tiredly and scoops up Sidney, getting a bit big to be scooped, from the floor.  If she pisses Janice off, she'll stop watching her creepy kid for her.

He's really a good kid, Sidney is.  Never rowdy, always does as he's asked.  Some days it almost feels like he could raise himself if he wanted—he's been making himself PB&J sandwiches since he was old enough to push the chair up to the counter.

The only thing he ever asks her for, in that soft, little-boy voice of his, is a pair of ice skates when he turns four.  She's had a weird influx of johns the past few years, the most she's had since she was nineteen and still fresh-looking, so they've got a little spare cash.  She gets him the skates secondhand and starts putting a tiny bit of money away each month for when he eventually grows out of them.

After that, every Sunday Sidney walks himself down to the nearest ice rink and stays for every minute of their weekly public free-skate.  Every Sunday he comes home with pinked-up cheeks and bright eyes.  It makes her wish they could afford to get him lessons or something.  But he never complains.

She does her best to care for him over the years, tiredly and absently, and when, just shy of his sixth birthday, he quietly disappears, she's gutted with guilt.

"He pulled a runner?" Janice asks, taking a heavy drag of her cigarette.  "Huh.  Didn't think he had it in 'im.  Well don't worry.  He'll come back.  Bet he's just out looking for a bigger ice rink, the little weirdo."

"He didn't run, he was taken," Cynthia insists, as she'll insist for years afterwards.  "I saw it.  I think.  He was taken right from the apartment."

"Well who took him?"

Cynthia wades through a fog in her mind.  Why is it so hard to remember?

She fights, her grasp on the sliver of memory tenuous, and just when it's about to fade back into the recess of forgotten thoughts, a purely human streak of stubbornness latches onto it and doesn't let go.

"The blood man!" she exclaims, triumphant.  "The blood man came and took Sidney!"

"Cyn, who the fuck is the blood man?"

"From the hospital.  You've met him a few times, remember?  He comes by every six months or so to take a sample of Sidney's blood for tests—because of that sickness he had as a baby, you know?"

Janice's gaze is blank and confused.  "I have no idea who you're talking about.  What did he look like?"

"Well, he's—"  She stops, then tries again.  "He's got…dark hair.  Or maybe it was blond?  Curly, though.  Was he tall?  I think he had to have been tall, he had such long hands."

Janice looks at her pityingly.  "Hon, you're exhausted and upset.  Go to bed.  I’m sure Scotty will be back in a few days."

"His name is _Sidney_!"

"Sidney, of course."

Cynthia goes to the hospital that night, and the next day, and the day after that, but no one has any answers for her.

"We don't send doctors on house calls, ma'am," one tired receptionist tells her.  "You must be mistaken."

She tries the ice rink every day for weeks, but like the hospital, there are no answers.  No one seems to remember the determined little boy with the dark curls and the secondhand skates, who came there every week for years.

She keeps looking, with less and less hope, until the day she can no longer remember the shape of his eyes or the cadence of his voice.  That day comes sooner than she thinks it should.

Within a year, Cynthia is the only one who remembers Sidney Patrickson ever existed.

 

On August 7th, 1993, Sidney is adopted by Trina and Troy Crosby and legally becomes Sidney Patrick Crosby.  He gets everything he hand-picked them for: a father obsessed with hockey and still stung with the loss of his own fallen-short NHL dreams, and a mother whose longing for a child will ensure she'll always be willing to drive him to the rink, to games, and will sit in the chilly stands for hours while he practices.

A couple years later, he gets something else, something he didn't plan on: Taylor.

At first, Sidney doesn't care much about Taylor either way.  She's a baby, weird-looking like all human babies are.  She's got a fresh-bright soul and a regularly stinky diaper.

Then she becomes an inconvenience.  Trina no longer has as much time to take Sidney to the rink and won't let him go alone.  Troy can't practice as often with him now, not with the extra hours he's working.  They hadn't planned for another child, hadn't even known it was possible.  They're delighted, but time and money were already stretched tight with Sidney's hockey.  Good things sometimes come with sacrifices, Tina explains gently to Sidney.

Grumpily, Sidney peers over the edge of Taylor's crib.

"What's so fucking great about you anyway?" he asks, away from adult ears.  "They don't need you.  They've already got me."

Taylor gurgles happily.

He thinks about killing her—that'd get her out of his way—but something in his gut turns unpleasantly at the thought.  It must be his humanity.  Right now he's a weird hodgepodge of human and demon; human emotions, like a repulsion to kill something so vulnerable and young, crop up at the most inconvenient times, more powerful than he's experienced.  His demon soul doesn't always comfortably fill the extra expanse of his humanity.  Like thinned out smoke.

So he stays his hand, and Taylor smiles up at him with absolutely zero survival instincts.  Stupid baby.

Somewhere over the years, as she grows Taylor gets the idea in her death-wish head that Sidney likes having her around.  She follows him _everywhere_ as soon as she's mobile.  He wonders if she just doesn't sense the strangeness about him that keeps most other kids from getting too close, the strangeness he hasn't yet gotten the hang of hiding.

She's persistent though, he'll give her that.  And he gets in trouble when he doesn't play nicely with her, so he starts making an effort to make it look like they get along.  He lets her toddle around after him, holds her in his lap whenever she clambers atop him, and when she's big enough she lets him stick her in goalie pads and shoot pucks at the net behind her.

His hockey schedule picks up as the years pass, and he eventually doesn't have as much time to spend with her.  But she still gives him the same toothy smiles, the same hero-worship words and little-sibling teasing, and he looks at her one day and is surprised to realize that somewhere along the way she tricked him into actually liking her.

She must be wilier than he suspected.  She wouldn't make a half-bad demon.

He decides it's maybe kind of nice to have someone always on his side.  He does what he can to maintain her loyalty.

Sidney keeps going, keeps playing hockey.  It's better than he'd imagined it could be.  His human body gets tired and feels the sweet burn of exertion in a way he couldn't know as a demon, and he loves it.  He sweats, he bruises.  Everything about hockey that intrigued him before his deal is amplified now in ways he hadn't been capable of understanding.  He loves hockey with a fierce, savage, _human_ joy.

It doesn't always love him back—at least not the parents and player and fans.  On days he's feeling more demon than not, it makes him laugh.  As though humans' hate could hurt him.  Except on the days it does, when tears want to well up for no good reason and he can't help wondering if their hate is stronger because they sense the Hell in him.

Troy gets kicked out of rink after rink, and Trina frets and fusses, so it's decided Sidney will go to Minnesota.

"I'll miss you," Taylor tells him, forlorn.

"I'll miss you too," Sidney says, and his stupid human body warms to the core when she squeezes him into a hug and doesn't let go.

 

Jack Johnson, Sidney suspects after meeting him, is trouble.  He makes Sidney's body do stupid human things, like flush and giggle and fumble around.  Is this a crush?  Jesus fuck, it's a crush.  Crushes are terrible.

Jack is terrible, too.  He's great at hockey, which might have some influence on the crush what with the way Sidney's body is so wired in to the sport, but his nose is big and his laugh is dorky and his cheeks are always fucking pink.  Terrible.

Sidney wants to bite his oversized nose.

Sexual desire was not something Sidney experienced as an incubus.  Sex was just food for him, arousal a tool of the trade.  Now he's got this human body, and suddenly sex is something more than just his stomach is interested in.

It's not something he can afford to participate in, though.  He's lost his magic, but his kisses still carry the sweetened bite of incubus venom, tainted from his soul.  It's too dangerous to risk his position just to get his dick wet, when he can feed his demon soul fine without that.

He gets by.  Arousal is so fucking distracting, but indulging it feels fantastic, even though it's just by his own hand.  No wonder humans are such easy prey for his kind.

At least he's feeding well at Shattuck St. Mary's, almost as well as he did living in an apartment-block brothel.  Teenagers' bodies are a constant source of sexual energy.

So is his own, come to think of it.

"Dude."  Jack flicks a scrap of paper at him over their homework.  "You got a really weird look on your face just now.  What're you thinking about?"

"If self-cannibalism is an option for me."

Jack pulls a face.  "Yeah, I'm hungry too.  Hey, let's see if my mom'll make us anything!"

Jack Johnson is terrible, and dorky, and dumb, but he still ends up wreaking havoc on Sidney's no-fucking policy.

They're sitting on Sid's bed a few days later, side-by-side doing homework once again, knees knocking whenever one of them shifts.  Sidney can feel Jack's arousal simmering lowly, but that's nothing out of the ordinary; teeneagers are often simmering with arousal.  He likes to sip from it when he can, the taste milder than he's used to but filling enough.

He's not expecting Jack to turn to him, lip red and wetted where he's been chewing it out of nerves, and say, "Hey Sid, can I—would it be okay…?"

Sidney blinks and waits for clarification, but instead Jack leans in, the hum of his arousal suddenly sharpening, and, eyes squeezing shut, he presses his lips to Sidney's in an innocent's kiss.

It's Sidney's first human kiss, full of all the human emotion and sensation he never experienced as a demon—for a moment he can't move for shock, his lips gently parted.

This simple, chaste brush, their mouths softly touching, is enough to send his heart racing, his lips alight with tingling, his groin stirring.  It's nothing like the practiced, coaxing kisses he dealt out as a demon seducing his prey, or the filthy, passionate ones he used once the prey had been caught.  Those kisses—though dull, dead, part of the job for him—were a master's craft.  This kiss is nothing compared to those, yet it sends his whole body alive and sparking.

While Sidney's frozen by sensation, Jack makes a breathy little noise and presses in gently closer, stealing another kiss.  His arousal is skyrocketing, and he pulls back enough to say, breathless, "Is this okay?  Please, Sid, I feel so—wow.  Can I keep kissing you?  I've never felt this before, I'm, oh fuck—"  He presses in again without waiting for a response, more urgent now, his breathing shuddering.  He steals kiss after kiss until finally, hungry in a way he's never experienced, Sidney shakes off his shock and surges into it, shoving Jack against the headboard and swinging atop his lap.

Sidney pours everything he knew as a demon into the kiss, all the skill and technique and tricks of the trade he picked up over centuries.  He clasps and squeezes every bit of Jack he can reach, hands deliberate and roaming.  Jack melts beneath him, ceding control of the kiss with a happy sound, lost instantly to Sid's skill and passion and—incubus venom.  Fuck, his incubus venom.

Sidney wrenches away from Jack, tumbling back onto his ass on the bed.

"Sid?" Jack gasps out.  "Are you—?  Oh wow, that was—you're a really good kisser.  Are you okay?"

"Fine," Sid rasps out automatically, hoarse and winded.

Jack reaches for him, and his hand drops to the bedspread when Sid scrambles out of his range.

"Sid?"

Sidney ignores him.  His gut is sinking fast.  All over Jack is the evidence of his venom seeping deep—glazed eyes, fevered cheeks, his entire body angled towards Sidney.  It's far too late for Sidney to stop it.

Maybe it's not too late for Jack to stop it, though.  Sidney remembers Grant and how he bucked the venom out of love for hockey.  He grasps onto the thought desperately.

"Jack, I need you to—I need you to focus for a sec, okay?  Can you do that?"

"Sure Sid, anything," Jack promises. "Whatever you want."  He's staring at Sidney's lips like a starving man stares at steak.

"No really, _focus_.  I need you to focus on something you really love, like, something you love _the most in the world_.  Can you do that?"

"I'd really love to kiss you again," Jack says, and _shit_ , Sidney is so hungry.  The smell coming off Jack is absolutely tantalizing.  The everyday sexual energy put out by a multitude of horny teenagers is nothing compared to that put out by a human who's having sex under the sway of incubus venom.  

Sidney's demonic side skims closer to the surface than it's been for years.  He feels like he hasn't eaten properly a day in his life, ever since he put on this stupid human facade.  He's ancient once again, and so faint and weak with a gnawing hole at the center of him.  It's been so long since he fed properly like the demon he is, getting by on whorehouse scraps and teenaged lust.  If he could just have a _taste_ of the sweet energy Jack's generating—

Would it be so bad?  Jack wants it now, and he definitely was interested in Sidney before the venom took over.  Fucking a human who's fevered on lust is nothing he hasn't already done a billion times before, anyway.  Why should it give him pause now?  Now, when he's starving with a true human hunger?

But no, that's not true.  He's not starving.  He ate lasagna today for lunch until he was bursting.  His body is perfectly well-fed, and his soul does fine on scraps these days.  He doesn't need to feed the way he used to.

He's not just a demon now, and his _stupid fucking human side_ is apparently not onboard with whatever betrayed face Jack would make if he ever realized what Sidney is and how he took advantage of him.

Jack's just gonna have to sweat it out or something.  Sidney's never actually seen someone sweat out incubus venom before, but it has to be possible.  It might be miserable going, but Sidney can't take this any further.

Once Jack's in his right mind again, Sidney's going to have a hard enough time explaining this as is.  Fucking Jack does _not_ count as lying low.

" _Sid_ ," Jack groans, and Sidney curls up tighter in a ball, as far from Jack as he get.  He needs to figure out something to do with Jack.  Maybe he can knock him out until the venom has run its course?  He eyes the room for a blunt weapon.

His vague planning is interrupted by a knock at his room's door.  He ignores it at first, but then it comes louder and more insistent and he worries someone might go get a school administrator or something.

"Jack, I need you to get under the covers and stay quiet for a minute, okay?  If you do this for me, I'll come kiss you again," he lies.  The lie makes Jack eagerly compliant as he clambers under Sidney's covers, though, so Sidney isn't going to lose any sleep over it.

Once he's made sure Jack is as hidden as he can manage, Sidney pads to the entrance, takes a second to straighten himself and try to compose his racing heart.  Then he opens the door.

There's a pair standing outside his room.  At first glance they look to be father and son, similar enough in their faces and bearing.  At second glance, however, Sidney realizes that the son is definitely not human.  His exterior _looks_ human, a boy not aged over 13 or 14, but Sidney still has enough demon in him to see past that and recognize a faint shimmer of grace around the edges.  There's an angel at his door.

"Hey," the angel says with a broad, bright smile.  "Sidney, right?  I'm PK.  I'm so excited to finally meet you."

This is perhaps the last thing Sidney has ever expected an angel to say to him, even had he been expecting to open his door and find one waiting.  For a moment, he can only stare, words utterly stymied.

The man—the human—nudges the angel gently.  "Might want to explain a little more, kiddo, he's looking confused."

The angel looks sheepish.  "Right, yeah.  So um, I'm PK.  I'm here to help you!  Well not you, directly.  More like that kid you're hiding in here who's been hit up with your incubus venom."

Sidney hisses, eyes darting to the human, but PK giggles and holds up his hands.  "Don't freak, it's okay!  He knows what we are.  He's my dad."

Sidney's about to open his mouth—to say what, he's not even sure—when they're interrupted by a ragged groan from under Sidney's covers, too loud to ignore.

"Look, how about we explain everything afterwards," PK says with a kind glance over the top of Sidney's shoulder.  "First I need to get that venom out of him, okay?  That's what I'm here to do."

"You can do that?" Sidney asks.  His voice is more hoarse than he's expecting, and he clears his throat.  "You can fix this?"

"You betcha," PK says, his smile crinkling his eyes.  "So can we come in?"

Without a word, without really even thinking about, Sidney opens the door wider and steps aside.

"Thanks," PK says, and he heads straight for the bed and lifts the covers off Jack.

Jack looks even worse than a minute ago, if that's possible.  Sidney can't remember the last time someone looked so affected by his venom, but maybe it's just a difference of his human eyes.

"Ouch," PK winces sympathetically.  "That's some case of inc' venom you've got here."  The human—his dad?—takes a lean against the far wall, out of the way, seemingly content to let PK handle things.

"I wasn't," Sidney starts, flushing, "I didn't mean to—"

"You're fine, Sidney," PK smiles up at him.  "It was an accident, I know.  Let's just get this out of him, okay?  C'mere."

"I don't—I can't do anything to help.  I can't take it out once it's in him, that's not how we work."

"I know, no worries," PK says reassuringly.  "I'm just gonna borrow your hand for a little bit, okay?"

Wary, but willing if it can make Jack stop moaning and thrashing and staring at him with beseeching lust, Sidney steps closer and holds his hand out to the angel.  PK takes it and places it to Jack's chest, covering it with his own smaller, darker hand.

"Just feel for a sec," PK says on a low, soothing voice, like Sidney is a wild animal.  "You want this out of him.  Everything's gonna be okay."

Skittish so close to an angel, Sidney nonetheless does his best to follow instructions.  He closes his eyes and tries to _feel_ , sure he's a fool.  What exactly he's supposed to be feeling, he's got no idea.

But then he senses it.  He knows his own venom, knows the poisoned song of it intimately, and he can feel it as it starts flowing from Jack and into PK.  Jack quiets, and he calms, and then his eyes close and he falls into a rested sleep.

"There," PK says, quietly satisfied.  He lets their hands fall away, and Sidney immediately steps back.  "Perfect.  He won't remember anything, just'll think it was a weird dream.  No harm."

"It's all gone?" Sidney asks, though he knows it is.  He felt it all leave himself.  "He'll be okay?"

"He'll be just fine," PK says with a sunny smile.  He looks tired but pleased, like he's delighted he got the chance to wear himself out fixing Sidney's fuck-up.

"How did you know to come?   _Why_ would you help?  I'm a demon."

"Well, it's a little bit of a weird situation here," he says, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow.  "Your friend's technically young enough that he shouldn't be able to be targeted by an incubus.  You know you guys don't feed from kids.  But then, you're kind of a kid yourself, not to mention you're not exactly pinging as full demon at the moment.  Everything's a little weird.  So, end result, your venom found its way to someone who should've been immune, and I got sent in to put things back in the right balance.  Well, I say _sent_ —I actually asked if I could be the one to take care of this, so I could get a head start on meeting you."  He beams radiantly.

"But—what exactly are you?  I can see your grace, but you're not like any angel I've seen."

"Ah, right," PK says.  "In a way I'm kinda like you right now.  I'm on an Earth-shift."

"A what?"

"Earth-shift," PK repeats.  "You probably didn't know this, most demons don't, but every few centuries of an angel's life we'll get sent down for a shift on Earth.  We get born into a human body, human families, all of that.  It keeps us connected to our charges, makes sure our empathy is sincere."

Sidney supposes that's nominally like what Sidney is doing on Earth, if you ignore the fact that he's here for completely selfish reasons.  He doesn't say this though.

"Is it okay for you to tell me that?"

PK laughs.  "Of course!  You're a good guy, Sid.  Besides, it's not exactly dangerous information.  Most demons just don't care enough about angels to know about Earth-shifts."  He looks at Sidney with a warmth that prickles uncomfortably.  "But you aren't like most demons, are you?"

Sidney blinks.  "Um.  I'm exactly like other demons?  Oh, you mean the hockey thing.  That's a little unusual, yeah, I'll admit."

"Mm," PK hums.  "You know, you've got a lot of angels watching you, wanting to know how you'll do.  When you took that deal, you really shook things up.  More than a few angels decided to take an Earth-shift like me, so they could get an up-close view.  You've caught a lot of attention."

Sidney swallows.  "Great."

"Don't worry!" PK grins.  "I've got a lot of faith in you.  I'm really pulling for you."

"To...do well at hockey?"

"Yeah, that too.  And hey, don't be surprised if you see me around the NHL in a few years.  Can't let you have all the fun, right?  You might see a few other familiar faces as well."

Sidney decides to play dead and just smiles uncertainly.  PK laughs and gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder.  "Good luck, Sid.  I'll see you in a few years."

"Sure," Sidney nods.  "And um, thank you for coming.  I know it was for Jack, but still.  I appreciate it."

"Hey, no problem.  Thank my dad for giving me the ride," PK says.  Not sure if he's serious, Sidney gives the human an uncertain look.  The man grins PK's grin.

"Thank you?"

"Glad I could help, Sidney.  You take care of yourself, okay?  From what PK's said, you've got a big task ahead of you."

No bigger than PK's, if he's serious about the NHL too, but Sidney doesn't says that.  Instead he asks, "Uh, is it normal for you guys to tell your human families who you are?  When you're on an Earth-shift?"

"Not really," PK says with a big smile.  "This family is important though, so I got special permission."

Sidney's not really sure what to do at this point but see them out, so he does just that.  It's definitely the most surreal encounter he's ever had with an angel, and PK just makes it weirder when, at the doorway, he pauses to pull Sidney into a tight, short hug.

"Um."

"See you around, Sid!  And don't worry about Jack, he'll wake up tomorrow and be fine."  He pauses, then grins.  "So will you, for that matter."  And then PK and his dad are gone, and Sidney is left with a sleeping Jack Johnson and his own recriminations.

He can't be this stupid again.  He lucked out this time due to one weird angel who seemed a little confused about what demon-angel relations are supposed to look like, but he can't count on that again.  He needs to be smarter about keeping a low profile.

After checking in on Jack, still conked-out on the bed, Sidney makes a quick call to Jack's mom to spin a story about Jack falling asleep while they were working on homework and can he please stay the night?  She laughs and gives careless permission, completely oblivious to what almost befell her son.  Then Sidney slips on a coat and ducks out into the night.

It doesn't take him long to find the pockets of campus where sex is happening.  Once found, it's a simple matter for him to lurk outside hallways and under windows until he's breathed in enough energy to settle the ache in his soul.  Back when he was a full demon he'd have considered this slim pickings, nothing compared to fucking a human himself, but it's enough.  If he just wanted to fuck humans he would have stayed a demon.  He's here to play hockey, and he's not going to waste his chance—or let anyone, even Jack motherfucking Johnson, waste it for him.

 

Things are a little awkward for a while with Jack, after that.  Just like PK promised he wakes up the next morning with no apparent memory of making-out with Sidney, but there's something in his eyes when he smiles at Sidney, a caution when he touches him.  Maybe it's just his subconscious, which still remembers the truth.

It fades, eventually, and things go back to how they were between them.  Jack even considers kissing him again once or twice, but Sidney is smarter now and steers those moments away.

Against his expectations, he and Jack stay in touch, even after Sidney leaves Minnesota.  They're friends—actual friends, something Sidney didn't plan to have.  Like Taylor's loyalty, though, he's not going to turn it away having won it.

When Sidney gets drafted first overall a couple years later to the Pittsburgh Penguins, Jack's right there by his side.  And Taylor's hug and whispered words of pride linger in his bones for hours afterwards.

 

* * *

 

In February of 2009, Sidney steps onto Philadelphia ice and feels the prickle of something familiar at the back of his neck.  He shakes it off quickly, slipping into the uninterrupted flow of the team's warm-ups, but the feeling lingers.

It's only when he glances over to the other half of the ice and sees one of the orange-bedecked players watching him that he recognizes the lightning-storm scent of a holy angel.

The player is one he vaguely recognizes from their team briefs prior to the game, a recent call-up from the AHL, but the name eludes him.  Like PK, his grace only shimmers around the edges, so whoever it is probably is on an Earth-shift too.

Then Sidney looks past the human face and takes a little closer look at the soul, because he _swears_ there's something familiar there—

"What the fuck," he hisses aloud, causing Tanger, passing by, to cast him a confused look.  Sidney waves him off, not taking his eyes off Claude— _Claude Giroux_ , he remembers now, _the little fuck even kept the same name_.  Claude's wearing a slight smirk that says he knows he's been recognized.  Sidney shoots him a glare but can to do little else for now.

"You can't use your license now," he whispers at the angel the first draw they take against each other.  "I'm human."

"Not here for that," Claude whispers back, and then the puck is dropped and, with vicious satisfaction, Sidney ties up Claude's stick and kicks the puck back to his own team.

He doesn't get the chance to talk to Claude again that game, nor does he seek the opportunity out.  He can't imagine what the angel is doing here, but he resolves not to let it throw him.  Sidney has every right to be playing as much hockey as he can squeeze into his remaining time.  He made a perfectly legitimate deal with a perfectly legitimate demon, and until that deal is up he's off-limits for smiting.

Maybe that's why Claude took an Earth-shift now, he reasons to himself after the game is won.  He wants to be here the second Sidney's deal expires and he returns to his true form, just so he can smite him immediately, before he manages to sneak back down to Hell.

Sidney bares his teeth in a snarl, unseen by anyone but the shower stall wall.  Claude can try.  And in the meantime, Sidney will just have to take preemptive revenge by kicking his ass with superior hockey every chance he gets.

 

Sidney knows he doesn't always make the most convincing human.  He does his best to blend in enough that he only comes off as slightly odd, easily explained away as a lifetime of devotion to hockey, but he's not perfect.  He's not here to be human; he's here to play hockey.

His teammates seem to take most of his oddities in stride.  They think he's weird and intense, but at least none of them suspect he's not entirely human.  Perhaps they're willfully ignoring the way he's just a little left of center: too sharp, too linear in focus, always a beat too slow in understanding moments of compassion or warmth or kindness.  His talent excuses much in their eyes, he knows.  It's an unlooked for side benefit he's nonetheless grateful for.

But his cover still needs maintaining, his position as captain especially.  Hockey needs a team to play.  And that means socializing.

He learns his team.  It doesn't take him long to feel possessive of them—if not of the individual teammates, who will always be transient, then at least of the entity of the team itself.  He came from Hell for this, gave up too much and worked too hard not to feel cutthroat-protective of it.

That protectiveness goes doubly for his own human body.  Every late, high hit, every sneaked crosscheck, every dirty elbow to the face that doesn't get called—all of it makes something within him snarl and lash.  How dare these humans— _how fucking dare they_ —jeopardize this for him?  They know _nothing_ —of him or of the world they think they live in.

He's getting better every year at controlling his reactive viciousness, at least transmuting it into a response he can actually use on the ice, but it burns.  With every cheap liberty taken that could end everything for him, it burns.  Who the fuck do they think they are, these clueless humans with no idea of the forces surrounding them, so shallow-eyed.

He could ruin them.  Even without his magic, he could ruin them with a venomed kiss, leave them so obsessed with lust for him that they'd gladly tank their own careers at his whim.  It wouldn't be at all subtle and would risk fucking over his own career in tandem, but he could do it.

He never felt this burn of vindictive rage as a demon, and he's not sure he likes it.  He knows it clouds him.  Human emotions on the whole are terribly distracting, and they mix with his demon soul in dangerously volatile ways.

But he's not a fucking idiot.  The most he allows out are petty retaliations, slashes and crosschecks of his own that sometimes get caught and sometimes don't.  He keeps the demon side, the side that suggests dismemberment as a perfectly acceptable revenge, locked layers deep beneath his bones whenever he's on the ice, away from the passion of his humanity.

The sweetest revenge has always been winning, anyway.

"Captain's got his murder stare on," Duper announces to the locker room in between periods of a particularly gruesome game, where it feels like the other side is getting away with every dirty play in the book.  "Everyone look out, here we go."

His words barely register with Sidney, his brain easily filtering them through as superfluous, but he doesn't as easily ignore the teasing, gentle nudge Geno gives him on their way back out to the ice.

"Ok, Sid?"

Sid's focus zeroes in on Geno, half of his mouth quirking in a mean smile.  "Let's fucking crush them," he says and pops in his mouth guard.  Geno licks his bottom lip and grins.

Sometimes they crush them and sometimes they don't.  But Sidney has never had to doubt that Geno understands the wild-heart pleasure that comes from stepping on the ice and fighting for the game's favor.  Geno, it was immediately obvious, has hockey in his soul the way Sidney does.  He knows what it means to chase it with desperate determination and leave everything familiar behind for it.

On this particular game, Sidney ferociously swipes in two goals himself and sets up Geno for a third on the powerplay, which turns out to be the game winner.  His blood sings with delight when Geno beams and yells, "Fuck yeah!  Sid!" right in his ear.

It's everything he left Hell for.  All the annoyance of hiding what he is is worth it for this.

 

If Sidney didn't know better, he'd suspect Flower of secretly being an imp.  He isn't—his scent is clean human through-and-through—but there's something similar is his wide, irreverent grin whenever he gets someone in the face with shaving cream or successfully sneaks itching powder into their jock.  It reminds Sidney of nothing so much as the little implings scurrying around Hell, wreaking havoc on any unwary demons with dull eyes and absent attention, and his weird human heart has decided to squeeze happily whenever he sees that particular grin.

He doesn't remember feeling any fondness for imps before.  Maybe he's more homesick for Hell than he thinks.

Flower, in true impish form, was quick to pick up on Sidney's weakness for him, and over the years has roped Sidney into assisting with his pranks whenever Sidney isn't the unwitting target himself.  Sidney doesn't mind; it keeps him sharp, playing the bland distraction or the shadow accomplice, and it satisfies something deleterious in those corners of his soul which Hell still holds.

He thinks Flower is a friend.  Like with Jack, it's not something he planned on, but he'll take it.  It helps cement his cover as a human, and spending time with Flower isn't really a hardship.

He's not sure of the rest of the team, if they qualify as actual friends outside of being teammates.  Human standards for friendship still confuse him, and he knows locker room bonds are not necessarily normal.  Is it only friendship if it could exist without hockey?

He doesn't spend too much time worrying about it.  On the ice he knows his team's reactions, and it's there they know to trust him—that's what he needs.  Friendship is auxiliary.

 

Barely days after Sidney wins the Cup, he wakes up in Geno's guest room with a hangover trying to break through his stupid human head and a demon standing at the foot of his bed.

"Ugh," he groans when he recognizes Samuel peering down at him through a human facade.  "You're early.  Years too early."

"Not here to collect," Samuel smiles, particularly snake-like in his current magicked form, slender and slinky and pale.  "Just dropping by for a visit."

Slightly more awake, awake enough to be suspicious and cautious, Sidney sits up, covers pooling around his waist.

"Yeah?  What kind of visit?"

"A friendly one, relax.  I wanted to congratulate you.  You've made it a lot further than even I expected.  I mean, I knew you were gonna be good, but wow.  You don't do things halfway, huh?  Already got yourself a Cup and everything."

"I'm not going to waste my time up here," Sidney says, vaguely defensive, not sure what he feels he's being accused of.  He rubs at his cheekbone, not quite willing to rub the sleep from his eye directly while Samuel is staring at him.  "I've only got seven more years."

"Seven more Cups?" Samuel asks, with a cruel expression that means he definitely notices the twitch Sidney can't quite suppress.  He chuckles.  "Look at you, picking up human superstitions.  Cute."

"Are you here for a reason?" Sidney says flatly.  "Or just to be a pain in my ass."

Samuel grins, dark and wicked, and tilts forward into a looming lean over Sidney's legs, palms flat to the bed.  Sidney just eyes him, confused but unperturbed.

"Maybe you'd like it if I were.  From what I've seen, it'd be the most action you've had as a human."

Sidney adopts an unimpressed look.  "Well I can't exactly go around fucking whoever I like.  I'm still venomous."

"So?  That didn't used to bother you."

"And I used to be able to use my magic to smooth over the memories and then disappear down to Hell afterwards, too.  Don't be stupid.  I've got an established identity now, it's too dangerous."

"If you say so.  If you're too squeamish for humans, Sidney, I'd be happy to help you out."

"Help me out how, exactly?"

Samuel straightens and gestures down at himself.  "I've got a perfectly good body right here, one that's immune to your venom."

Sidney laughs.  "You may be wearing a human face right now, Samuel, but you're still a demon.  You've got no interest in fucking."

"Not for myself, no.  As a favor to a favorite client, sure, why not?  Not like it matters to you, right?  I'm still a body, a vagina, which is better than your own hand.  Wouldn't you like to figure out how much better, really get the full human experience?  I could make it so good for you."

The thing is, Sidney can remember thinking like that.  He remembers assuming that all humans who liked sex would rather get it from another body than their own hands, regardless of other considerations.  And maybe that's not wrong; maybe it's just different because he knows Samuel is a demon.  All Sidney knows is that the thought of getting his dick near Samuel is not an appealing one.

He smirks, hard and cruel.  "Did you really just try to seduce an incubus?  With a weak line like that?  I appreciate the offer, but no.  What are you after, Samuel?"

Samuel seems to shrug the rejection off like water slicked from a raincoat.  Sidney can remember feeling that untouchable.  Demons care about so little; wounded pride is a waste of effort.

"I've got an offer for you," Samuel says.  "A wager, just a little fun, you can take it or leave it.  Interested?"

"What's the wager?"  Sid still has enough demon-instinct to feel wary.

"I've been keeping an eye on you, you know.  You've really gone all out with this human life thing, haven't you?  I admire your commitment to selling the lie that you're human.  You've convinced a lot of the humans around you that you actually care about them, that you're forming...connections with them.  Most demons who take an extended stay topside don't really bother with all that.  But look at you, fooling them all—your sister, your friends, your team.  They all think you like them—that you're _capable_ of liking them.  It's impressive."

"Humans form bonds," Sidney says guardedly.  "It would look suspicious if I didn't."

"No, I agree!  I'm just saying most demons don't bother, unless there's something immediate they can get out of it.  Shortsighted, perhaps—but not you, Sidney.  You're smarter."

"What's your point?"

Samuel takes a seat at the foot of the bed, and Sidney resists the urge to curl his legs up and away.

"Call it a minor curiosity.  I just can't help but wonder, after watching you all these years, if you might be able to trick one of these humans into actually loving you."  Samuel's smile flashes.  "Wouldn't that be something.  Do you know, I've never heard of it happening?  A human loving a demon—with real human love, the strongest force their kind is capable of producing.  But if any one of us could do it, it'd be you, Sidney.  You're already halfway there."

Suspiciously, Sidney asks, "That's the wager?  Whether I can make a human really love me or not?"

"By the time I come to collect on our deal, after you turn 29.  The fullest human love, that they're willing to die for.  And here's the part I think you'll really like: if you manage to pull it off, I'll give you the rest of your human life as a prize.  Think of that.  A full human life to old age, with all the hockey you can squeeze into those years.  At 29 you'll still be at your prime.  Think of how many more years in the NHL this could give you."  Samuel pauses, voice sliding low and knowing.  "How many more opportunities to win the Cup again."

"And if I lose the wager?"

"Then I'll collect from you at 29 as we agreed, and when you go back to your demonic form, you'll give me your true name."

Sidney can't help the shiver of unease he feels at even the mention of giving his true name out to someone.  True names have power; wielded correctly, to know a being's true name is to hold their will in your hand.

"So basically you're saying I could look forward to an eternity of servitude," he says, managing to sound unimpressed.  "I think I'll pass."

"Only if you don't win the wager," Samuel counters.  "And do you really think winning it is out of your grasp?"

Samuel certainly thinks so, regardless of any previous, flattering claims.  No demon of his kind makes a deal or wager they don't think they'll win.  But...the chance at a whole human life.  Decades more of hockey, even if some would have to come after he'd retired from the NHL.  The thought is too enticing to just dismiss.

Which, of course, is exactly what Samuel planned.  Sidney knowing he's being played doesn't make it any less effective.  He can't help running the calculations in his head.

Sidney's lived among humans for years.  Fuck, he's halfway one himself—not enough to love like they do, his soul can't change that much, but enough that he has a better understanding of how they work than he'd ever had as a full demon.  Maybe he could pull this off.

He's probably falling right into Samuel's hands.  But so what if he is?  What's an eternity going to matter anyway, once he's back in his demon life?  He won't have hockey; the angels will smite him for sure if he tries to go back to it once he's demon again.

Maybe they're going to smite him anyway.  It seems likely enough.  What's the point in protecting his true name if he's just going to get wiped out of existence as soon as he turns back into a demon anyway?  This wager will get him a shot at perhaps an extra decade in the NHL, then years of more hockey beyond that.  And if he fails, it's not as though he'll have much to lose anyway.

"I'll do it," he says, and Samuel looks surprised but pleased.

"I've got the updated contract right here.  You understand all the terms, yes?  Sign at the bottom.  Your human signature will be enough."

Sidney finds a pen in his hand and, feeling fierce determination in his breast, he leans forward to sign the proffered contract: _Sidney Patrick Crosby_.

"Excellent," Samuel purrs, pulling the contract away and vanishing it with a click of thin fingers.  "Now just remember: one human to love you with their 'greatest love'.  Good luck, Sidney."  And then Samuel too vanishes from this plane, leaving Sidney alone.

He's not alone for long.  A knock on the bedroom door interrupts his reeling thoughts, his stony, cold planning, and Geno's head pops inside, hangdog eyes creased with sleep and looking as hungover as Sidney feels.

"Sid," he says, more a low groan than spoken word.  He clears his throat heavily.  "Want breakfast?  Talbo make."

"Talbo's a fucking menace and is probably planning to poison us," Sid complains, but he climbs gingerly out of bed anyway.  His head swims in protest.  "I'm never drinking anything he thinks is a good idea ever again."

"Smart," Geno agrees.  "Come down.  I kill Flower soon if you not come stop me.  He whistle all morning, worst headache."  Geno's head disappears again, apparently satisfied with Sidney's compliance.

In the kitchen, after dressing, he finds Max, cooking as promised, and Flower, who seems to have taken Geno's threats seriously and stopped whistling though still looks disgustingly chipper, and a slumped figure at the table that's probably Tanger. Geno's top half is stuck inside the open fridge and doesn't show any sign of emerging soon.

"Hey hey hey," Max grins when he catches sight of Sidney, but it's weak and his face is noticeably pale.  "Look who's finally up."

"Go die," Sidney politely recommends to him and sinks into a chair across from the Tanger lump.  Hangovers are the stupidest part of being human.  Only Flower ever seems immune.

"That any way to talk to the guy making you eggs?  This is why you're single, Sid."

" _You're_ single," says Flower cheerfully, hovering over Max's shoulder and sneaking samples from the pan.

"Your mom's single," Max mutters and slaps his hand away.  "Besides, babies who've dated their girlfriend basically since the womb don't get to talk."

"Cook this too," Geno interrupts, straightening up out of the fridge at last with a package of bacon he drops to the counter next to Max.  He pokes him.  "Cook faster."

"I can't cook faster, dickweed, unless you want everything to turn out burnt.  Go sit your cranky ass down.  Look, it's Sid!  You love Sid.  Go bother him."

"Fuck you, Talbo," says Geno.  This doesn't stop him from shambling over and dropping into the seat next to Sidney anyway.

Sidney knows Max's phrasing is mostly a joke, but still it catches his attention, this of all mornings.  He peers over at Geno.

"You love me?"

It's not the love Samuel means, the powerful, fullest love a human is capable of—he's aware of this—but maybe it's a starting point in understanding, if Geno feels some sort of affection for him.

Geno gives him a funny look, then smiles.  "'Course love you, Sid.  What, you say you don't love me too?  Hurt my feelings so much!"

Sidney knows he should roll his eyes and make a joke here, but he's too focused.  Instead he asks, "So do you think it would be possible for someone else to love me?  Not just the way you love me, but like, love me the _most_.  The most it's possible to love someone.  Do you think that could happen?"

The kitchen has turned the sort of quiet Sidney associates with when he's fucked up some aspect of human behavior or let his demon side too close to the skin.  Flower and Max are sharing increasingly speaking expressions, and Geno just looks like his brain has stalled, lower lip drooped open as he blinks at Sidney.

Finally Tanger raises his head from the table and says, eyes bloodshot and dulled, "Fuck's sake, Sid.  We're all way too hungover to have this conversation right now.  Yes, you're fucking loveable.  Nobody actually thought you were into that sort of thing, but yes, of course it's fucking possible.  Jesus."

Sidney's thoughts still.  "Wait, what do you mean, 'into that sort of thing'?"

Tanger groans and, apparently finished with what he's willing to contribute, buries his head in his arms and says nothing.

Luckily, Flower picks up where he left off.  With a small smile he says, "Well we didn't think you were really into sex or dating or whatever, you know?  It's cool if you are, cool if you're not."  He shrugs.  "We just thought it wasn't your thing."

"Oh."  Sidney sorts this around in his head, realizing now that they might be having a slightly different conversation than he'd thought.  He was speaking generally of love, but it seems the others have focused in on a particular category of it.  He supposes it's not surprising they'd assumed he meant romantic love when he said "the most it's possible to love someone".  Humans, for all that love is one of the most potent forces they're capable of producing in their magic-weak souls, sometimes have oddly restrictive ideas about it.  Maybe it's best he let the guys keep on assuming he was speaking solely of romance.

"It hasn't been," he says, a little stiltedly.  "Been my thing, I mean.  But...maybe it could be?  My thing."

He's not clear on what note to strike here.  In their eyes, he knows he looks the part of the virgin innocent, and technically, in this version of himself, he supposes it's somewhat true.  But he's also had more sex than all of them put together, a thousand times over, and he worries the weight of that knowledge won't so easily remain hidden under scrutiny.

"I've had sex," he decides to say, and it's honest enough.  "Just not very recently.  And I've never really...dated anyone, so I was thinking, maybe it was time to try it?  Dating."

"That's what you want?" Flower asks, a measured softness to his tone.  "You'd only do it because this is what _you_ want, right?"  Sidney blinks at him.

"Why would I do anything I didn't want to?"

"Exactly," Max cuts in, dumping the scrambled eggs in a thick pile onto a waiting plate.  "He knows his own head, Flower, don't baby him.  He gets enough of that already."  He rips into the package of bacon, sparing a second to toss a grin at Sidney over his shoulder.  "Taking your first steps into the dating world, I'm so proud!  All right, tell me what kinda girls you're into, I'll take care of everything.  Blondes?  Everyone's into blondes.  Short?  Tall?  Sweet?  Smart?"

"Male?" Flower says deliberately, and once again the kitchen goes still with awkwardness, though this time it's really not Sidney's fault.

"That's cool too," Max says after a beat.  He's not looking up from the bacon, but his tone is light and sincere.  "We'll have to be a little sneakier is all, but we can totally do that.  Is that why you haven't dated?  Because you're…?"

"Not picky," Sidney supplies, vaguely amused.  Cultural stigmas about defining and regulating sexual attraction have always been funny to him.  More than any human, he's seen the underbelly shame and guilt that inevitably grows within the people caught between their society's rules and their own body's nature.  He's exploited that repression more times than he can count.

"Okay, cool, not picky.  We can work with that.  Just widens the pool, right?  So tell us, like, what kinda relationship are you looking for?  Something serious, something just for fun?"

Sidney plays along.  "Doesn't have to be serious right away, but eventually, yeah.  By, like, my 29th birthday."

Max just keeps calmly frying bacon.  "Sure, sure.  Specifics are good, specifics help.  By your 29th, got it.  That's lots of time.  Okay, what about the hockey question?  Like, if they're not a fan, is that a deal-breaker?  Is it a deal-breaker if they _are_ a fan?"

Geno makes a rude noise.  "So stupid, Talbo.  Of course have to like hockey, have to like hockey _most_.  What else Sid gonna talk about?"  He smiles at Sidney, warm and sly, like he's inviting him to share a joke.  Sidney's not entirely sure what the joke is, though.

"Hey, asshole, some people like to have a break from hockey shit when they chill with their girlfriend.  Boyfriend, whatever.  That's why I'm asking.  So, Sid?  Hockey _enthusiast_ or no?"

"Yes," says Sidney.  "I don't see how I could really be into someone who didn't like hockey."

Geno grins at him like Sidney got the joke after all, and Max shakes his head fondly.

"Obviously, right," he says, humoring.  "They gotta be into hockey.  Gotta be into asses, because, duh.  Anything else?"

"No kissing," Sidney says immediately.  "I don't do kissing."

Max pauses.  "Like, at all?"

"Not mouth-to-mouth.  If I date someone they'd have to be okay with that."

"No kissing," Geno repeats incredulously, sounding betrayed.  "How come no kissing?"  Sidney doesn't need his magic to know Geno is the kind of guy who would kiss for days if he could.  Were he Sidney's prey, back before the deal, Sidney would have spent hours working his generous lips red and swollen before ever getting near his dick.  Maybe he'd just have kissed him until Geno came in his pants, his orgasm deliciously flavored with his desperation and shame.

"No kissing," he says firmly.  "And probably no sex either."  Technically he could try to have sex without kissing—his venom only spreads mouth-to-mouth—but it's not worth the risk.  When an incubus fucks to feed he runs on instinct.  Mix that with Sidney's turbulent humanity, and he's not certain he could control himself.  With a meal right there at his lips, more sex energy than he's fed on at one time in this body, he's afraid he'd be overcome by the desire to kiss his prey and see them dazed with his venom, work them to the kind of explosive orgasm he hasn't devoured for decades.  And even if he could keep his demon instincts down, he's afraid he'd get caught up in the physical, human sensations and simply forget himself for one vital second.  His partner would wake up the next day and, without his magic to smooth their memories into something more mundane, without PK Subban to miraculously show up at the door, they'd think he'd drugged them or something.  If he was lucky.  If he was unlucky, they'd be astute enough and open-minded enough to realize there was something not quite human about him.

"It's cool, Sid," Flower says, with a mild glance at Geno, who, grumbling, subsides.  "You're not into anything physical, it's cool.  Plenty of people same way, yeah?  Plenty of people, it doesn't matter for them.  So, do you actually want help with this, finding someone?  Or are you just...thinking right now?"

Sidney stops to actually consider this.  He's only been playing along with Max, not quite serious, but maybe a romantic love wouldn't be such a bad idea.  What are his other options to win the wager?  His family may be predisposed to feel fondly towards him, and they say with a familial dutifulness that they love him, but he hardly thinks he's around them enough to groom them into the depth of love he'll need.  His team he sees frequently enough, more frequently than anyone, but he isn't willing to fuck with the dynamics of his team for this.  And if teammates are out, if family is out, what does that leave him?  The most conventional route is dating.  He can't kiss, he shouldn't fuck, but he's always known there are people out there who fall in love without such things, the way a hunter knows of the prey not interested in his bait.  This could be his best shot.

So he says, "Sure.  Yeah, I think I'm serious about this.  I want to try dating.  But I'm not—I don't know how to make someone like me, like that."

"Don't need to _make_ ," Geno says.  "Not how it works.  Someone like you because of you, you know, because you're good person, not because you make."

"Right, for sure," Sidney says quickly, trying to brush past his minor slip-up.  "I didn't mean like that.  I just meant—I'm not really sure how to date, is all."

Max comes over to the table then with the eggs and bacon, setting both plates in the center.

"All right, assholes, eat up.  Patented hangover breakfast, right here.  And while we eat we can figure out how to get Sid some sugar.  Except, you know, not _sugar_.  Maybe like, Xylitol sugar or something.  I don't know."

Tanger raises his head and drags the bacon plate closer to his side.

"Don't listen to anything Max suggests.  He'll try to set you up with the worst people.  Let Flower and me take care of it for you.  We'll find you someone perfect."

"No, I find," Geno insists.  "Find you best."

"Okay, see, no, because we all know you'd probably find him some gorgeous Russian woman who doesn't speak English.  Sid needs someone who'll make him practice his French."

"Fuck you, no one need French.  Worst language.  Listen, Sid, I find you best, okay?  Trust me."

"G, you fucker," Max cuts in, "you can't take half the bacon!  Put that back.  God, it’s like eating with animals in here.”

"Bacon from my house, I eat as much as I want."

"I cooked it!"

"Yeah, make up for shit alcohol you bring last night."

"So, Sid," Flower says brightly.  "What are your feelings on tattoos?"

Sidney wouldn't say that, over the course of breakfast, the guys are helpful so much as they are enthusiastic, but he'll take it.  He listens to everyone bickering back and forth, and he wonders if this counts as friendship, too.

 

* * *

 

Dating is stupid.

Sidney tries, he really does, going on every date his team—his friends?—line up for him.  He makes a fucking effort.  Nothing lasts past a third date.

"Problem is you're too picky," Geno says after another date falls apart for Sidney and he goes to Geno's couch to whine.  "What wrong with guy this time?"

"He didn't actually like hockey that much," he mumbles into the pillow he's face-planted on.

Geno makes a disappointed noise.  "I _tell_ Talbo this," he shakes his head.  "So stupid."

"I'm never going to find someone by the time I turn 29, am I," Sidney says morosely.  "This is so stupid.  I just want to play hockey, for as long as I can."

Maybe he is being too picky.  The rest of his human life is on the line here.  But if he's going to be around this person enough to manipulate them into love, he wants it to be someone he can stand, not someone who won't even talk hockey with him.

"Come on," says Geno, slapping Sidney's side and rising from the couch.  "You need distract right now.  Let's go."

Sidney groans and lifts his head from the pillow.  "Go where?"

"Show you.  Come on."

Geno takes him to the Igloo.  Sidney stands in the dark, empty parking lot and is hit by a wave of memory that makes his skin feel funny, tight and tingly.

"Okay?" Geno asks, pocketing his keys.  "You make weird face."

"I've done this before," Sid says, sidestepping the question.  "Not, uh, here.  But, yeah."

"Sneak into rink at night?  I'm not surprise, of course you do.  Impatient, want to play hockey—of course you sneak into rink.  When teenager, right?"

Sidney nods, because he did that too, but that's not the time he means.

"And before that.  I...fell in love with hockey the first time on a night like this.  Colder, then, but...this reminds me of that time."

Geno smiles at him, small and soft.  "Come on," he says.  "I have secret key, don't tell."

It's different than that night with Grant, but similarities linger, haunting gently: the echo of their voices in the empty rink, the feeling of being cut off from the entire rest of the world, the quiet reverence in Geno's smile as he takes the ice.  Sidney can't quite shake the memory of that frozen, intimate night.

They scrounge up a few pucks and play keep-away, Geno's laughter booming through the refrigerated air and still not getting close to the rafters.

"You cheat, so bad, Sid!  Ass too big to get around!"

Sidney grins and suddenly drops a stop, deking in the opposite direction and circling around Geno.  "That's not cheating!" he yells over his shoulder as he breaks off for the goal.  There's no net set up, but they're counting points for carrying the puck into the blue paint.  Geno streaks after him, swearing and laughing.

Geno doesn't ever pause to smile at him with lust-fooled adoration, the way Grant had.  There's a different warmth to his eyes, one that makes Sidney feel more seen than he ever was as a fantasy made flesh.

"We're friends, right?" he asks at one point when they catching their breath, leaning against the boards.  "Not just teammates?"

Geno whacks him lightly with his stick.  "Yeah, Sid.  Friends."

Sidney nods, satisfied.  "I thought so."  That makes three definite friends he can count, and potentially more on the team besides, who like him well enough and aren't his little sister.  It's not impossible for him to make relationships with people.  So why is he so awful at dating?  He's a fucking incubus, surely that should be giving him an edge.

"Sid?" says Geno, picking at the tape on his blade with what Sidney feels is unusual focus.  "Why you want to date someone so bad?  You say earlier, just want to play hockey.  So why not just play hockey?"

For a crazy second, Sidney thinks about telling him.  Geno fled Russia for hockey, of anyone surely he'd have the best chance of understanding.  And maybe—maybe if Geno knew everything, he could offer advice better tailored to what Sidney actually needs to know.

But Sidney's still not that much of an idiot.

"I want to try it.  I want...to see what all the fuss is, I guess.  Before I run out of time to try."

Geno cocks his head, finally looking up from his tape.  "Why run out of time?  Still so young, have whole life."

"I don't know.  I guess you never know what's going to happen."  Sidney pushes away from the wall, flipping around to smile tauntingly.  "Come on.  First to the far-side blue paint gets to start with the puck?"

Geno takes off with a competitor's joyful snarl.  Sidney laughs and whips back around, putting on a burst of speed to catch up, the sound of their skates slicing through the emptied rink.

 

Sidney doesn't give up on dating over the passing months and years.  The numbers dwindle down, and his efforts are always secondary to anything hockey-related, but he keeps steadily at it.

It's still stupid.

His longest relationship lasts a month and a half, and, for a while, he thinks it could actually work out and become his wager-winner.  Mireya ticks all the boxes: doesn't care either way about sex, can talk hockey for hours, finds Sidney's oddities endearing.  Sidney can feel himself warming, thinking of how he wouldn't mind having her around for as long as it would take to make her love him.  But then Mireya gets a job offer in California, one she can't imagine refusing, and she leaves Sidney with a kiss to the cheek and a vague invitation to "look me up next time you're playing the Kings, we'll grab drinks".

"You love Vero, right?" Sidney asks Flower one night, out for drinks after a close loss.  Flower's eyes soften as he looks into his beer, unbothered by Sidney's intense study of him.

"Of course.  Gonna marry her someday, you know?"

"So if it came to it," Sidney says, picking words carefully, "like, if someone made you choose, would you ever die for her?"  That gets Flower's eyes up, his smile uncertain.

"You mean, to save her life or something?"

Sidney nods.  "Sure, yeah.  Or maybe something like she was going to get taken somewhere else, and she'd either be killed there or be enslaved forever and never get to play—get to do what she loves ever again."  When Flower just stares at him, he tacks on, "So, yeah, to save her life.  Would you?"

Flower takes a swallow from his cup.  "Well, yeah.  I mean, I hope I would.  I hope I'd be brave enough for her.  I guess you don't really know until you're in that moment, right?  But I hope I'd be brave enough."

Sidney frowns, confused.  "Is it really about bravery?  Isn't it more—you love her enough, so you do it.   Because your love's so strong it doesn't matter how brave you are?"  He doesn't understand the slightly misty look Flower gives him then, but Flower nods.

"When you say it that way—!  Well.  Then, yeah.  I do.  I love her enough to die for her."  He cracks another smile.  "God, Sid, you're kind of a romantic, yeah?"

Sidney shrugs, trying to move the conversation along.

"I guess.  But I mean, can you explain _why_ you love her so much?  What is it about her that you love enough to make dying worth it?"

Flower's smile slides away, and he puckers his forehead in thought.  "How do you mean?"

"So for instance, say something happened and suddenly she could never have sex with you again.  Or like, she got really sick, bedridden the rest of her life.  Would you still love her that much?"

Flower nods immediately.  "Of course."

"But _why_?"

Smile kind, eyes searching, Flower says, "Because it's not about her body like that, Sid.  Yeah, she's gorgeous, and I really like sex with her, because I like sex.  But physical stuff like that, it's not why people _love_.  Love's about the soul, you know?  Love that strong, it's always about the soul.  Doesn't matter how her body changes, always gonna be her soul in there.  And she's so _good_ , so sweet and funny and sharp and kind, of course I'm always gonna love her."

"Oh."  Sidney smiles, because he knows this is the sort of thing you smile at, but his gut is sinking.

Sidney's soul is a demon soul.  It's always going to be a demon soul, at its core, even with the extra trappings of humanity he's sporting right now.  He's not _good_.  Maybe a demon soul...isn't ever going to be enough for that sort of love.

"What you say to Flower?" Geno asks a little later, sinking into the now empty spot next to Sid.  "He makes face like—" he pulls a gooey, lovestruck face, then quirks an amused eyebrow.  "Good talk?"

"We were talking about Vero."

"Ah.  Should have guessed."

"He loves her a lot."

Geno hums companionably.  "You miss Mireya?  Want love like that with her?"

Sidney shrugs.  "Premature, to wonder like that.  We weren't serious."

"Date her more than you date someone before."

"Yeah.  Just didn't work out, but maybe next time, right?" Sidney says, feeling empty.  Geno smiles.

"Next time," he echoes, and he gives Sidney's knee a friendly bump with his own.

 

Two weeks later, Sidney's sidelined.

He wishes he could blame the concussion on Samuel, some sort of trickery on his part, but he knows the original contract they drew up precluded any such thing.  This is just shitty luck and shitty hockey.

He's a caged animal, those months he's out.  There's something feral and snarling just beneath his skin, and it's all he can do to keep it in check.  Every week that passes without improvement is another week of missed hockey he'll never get back.  The knowledge of this burns at him sharper each time.  He didn't make his deal for _this_.

He doesn't let himself dwell much on the thought that this might be it for him.  If the doctors eventually decide it's not safe for him to ever get back to the game, he's not going to fucking listen.  He's just going to play and play until his body gives out from underneath him. He's only resting now because there are odds his head will still make a full recovery, and he's not willing to jeopardize that yet.

Restless and foul-tempered as he is, it's probably a good thing he stops dating.  There's no one in the world who'd be charmed by his perpetual dark mood, and he doesn't trust himself to be careful and _human_ when he's like this.

In time he starts avoiding everyone, not just his dates: wriggling out of team hang-outs, dodging Taylor's calls, holing up in his house in between doctor appointments and the nights he feeds at clubs with backroom sex and pounding basslines that make his headaches soar into new levels of pain.  He's angry all the time.  He misses Hell, the simplicity of it, the shallow emotions that never once left him feeling like his insides were being shredded or crushed.  Without hockey, he doesn't know who the hell he is.  The absence of it is a heavy stone sitting always in his chest, making him antsy with the urge to try to outrun the feeling—and just what is he supposed to do with a human life, anyway, without hockey?  Maybe a real human could find a way to cope with this loss, but Sidney flounders.  All of the harshest passions of his temporary humanity spill in to fill the holes within him, and he retains just enough clarity to know he should keep some distance right now between himself and anyone he wants to salvage a relationship with.

The team, after some fumbling confusion and uncertainty, eventually seem to furtively decide amongst themselves to respect his space.  Sidney's...glad.  Obviously.  It's what he wanted.  But there's a corner of him that hisses and thinks possessively of all the ways his teammates have stopped being _his_.

It's just another thing he doesn't know how to cope with.  Humanity is stupid.

Months deep into the concussion, he gets a weird voicemail left on his phone.  It starts with a long, silent pause, then it says, _"Look, Sidney.  It's Claude.  Just...don't be an idiot, okay?  Don't fuck up what you've got."_  And then it ends.  Sidney narrowly resists the urge to fly to Philadelphia and punch in a certain Flyer's teeth.  He doesn't even know what it _means_.  He hasn't got anything he could fuck up right now; his concussion has already seen to that.

He manages to write it off as angel-weirdness—or maybe Flyer-weirdness—and not dwell too long, which he's pretty fucking proud of considering how it feels like all he's got these days is time to dwell.  If Claude really wants to start shit he can 1) come say it straight to Sidney's face and 2) actually try to make fucking sense.

He doesn't get any visits from Samuel, not that he expected to.  Samuel has nothing to gain from Sidney right now, and demons have more than enough survival smarts to know to stay away from wounded, feral animals when there's nothing to gain.

All in all, Sidney's managing.  Everything fucking sucks, but he's managing.  And then comes the day that Flower apparently reaches the end of his patience in waiting for Sidney to open his doors again and just breaks into his house.

"It's not breaking in if I have a key," Flower says, having cornered Sidney in his own kitchen.  "Pour me a cup of that, would you?"

Sidney, shoulders tight, sets the electric kettle down and deliberately does not pour a second cup of tea.  "This isn't a great time, Marc."

"Mm, no shit.  I've noticed.  Never a good time these days, right Sid?"  Flower's tone is cheerful steel as he pushes in next to Sidney to grab an empty cup and reach for the kettle himself.  Sidney can smell the faint scent of his deodorant, can feel the shiver of their arm hair brushing each other's.  Flower isn't his goalie right now; all Sidney can count as his is an echoing house and a bag of gear he can't use.

"You need to go."

Flower turns an unimpressed look on him, perhaps blind to the trembling in his hands.  "Not happening, Sid.  You've been hiding up alone too long.  Besides, I just poured tea."  Pointedly, Flower drops a tea bag into his cup and covers it in hot water from the kettle.

Sidney can't even look at him, abruptly furious.  He leaves his own cup where it sits, knowing if he touches it he'll smash it.

"Fine," he snaps out.  "Whatever, do what you like."

If he kissed Flower right now, pumped him full of his venom hour after hour, how long could he keep him as _his_?  He's never tested how long a human can last strung out on his venom without breaking—never needed to in order to feed—but he thinks he could manage at least a week.  Flower would probably be cracked open from the guts outward afterwards, but he'd be entirely _Sidney's_ for that week, body and mind and soul and heart.  Sidney hasn't felt so hungry in ages.

He needs to get out of here.

"I'm going upstairs to nap.  Leave when you've finished your tea."

He makes it halfway across the kitchen before he feels Flower's fingers on his elbow, trying to tug him around, and all of his tenuous control snaps.  Within seconds he has Flower's back thudding into the fridge, Sidney's hands clawed around his shoulders, his lips curled into a snarl.  If he still had his magic, his soul's monstrous true form would have already broken through to the surface.

But he looks entirely, deceptively human as he rasps, "Just fucking get out of here, okay?"

Though Flower keeps his muscles loose and unresisting, his wide eyes betray him.  He's spooked.

"Sid?"

Sidney should let go.  His fingers tighten instead.

"You're still my goalie, right?" he finds himself saying desperately, hoarse and low.  "You're still _mine_?"

"God, Sid," Flower murmurs gently.  "Of course.  We're all still yours.  And you're still _our_ captain.  That's been bothering you?"

"I'm not, though.  I'm not fucking anything without hockey.  I don't— _Flower_ —"  One of Sidney's hands leaves the lean, firm muscle of Flower's shoulder and smoothes up to cup the side of his neck.  "You're so good, you know that?" he whispers.  "Backbone of the team.  There's nobody who's more important than you are."

Flower's smile is soft and uncertain.  "Yeah, Sid, we all know your feelings about goalies."

"No.  I'm talking about _you._  I'm so glad it was you.  I could've ended up with anyone behind me in the net, but I got you, and I'm so glad."  His eyes drop briefly to Flower's lips, and fuck, he's so tempted.  He can't have hockey, but for at least a week he could have Flower: the closest he can get to the team's soul.

It wouldn't be right.  When have demons ever cared about what's right?  Sidney needs this.

Flower is frozen in stillness, watching Sidney.  His eyes are heartbreaking to look too closely at, soft, sweet, deep.  Demon eyes aren't like that—theirs are both too flat and too sharp, even when they're wearing a magicked human facade.  Proper angel eyes aren't either—theirs are too strong, too luminous, at times painfully bright, to be considered tender.  This sort of soulful, vulnerable beauty has always been unique to humans.

Flower is Sidney's friend.  This would wreck him.

" _Fuck_ ," Sidney groans, and he wrenches away a few steps backward.  "Flower, I…I'm sorry.  Shit."

Flower looks a little shaky as he smooths a hand through his hair and smiles at Sidney, looking a little to the left of Sidney's eyes.

"Hey, hey, it's good.  You told me it was a bad time.  I'm sorry too.  I'll just get out of your hair, for a bit, okay?  It's all good."  He's gone before Sidney can think of anything else to say.

Both Flower's and Sidney's cups sit abandoned on the counter.  Sidney leaves them where they are, unshattered, and escapes upstairs.

 

He's sure he's ruined his friendship with Flower.  He's sure Flower's never going to want to be around him again.

He should have known Flower was just planning to come back with reinforcements.

"What the fuck?"

A few days after his encounter with Flower, he comes down from his bedroom to investigate suspicious sounds coming from his TV room and finds Flower, Geno, and Tanger in front of his couch building what looks to be a giant nest out of blankets and pillows, the corner of a mattress sticking out underneath.  Flower looks up and grins straight at him, bright and pleased.

"Sid!  Good, we're almost ready.  Sit tight for a sec, 'kay?"

"What are you guys doing here?"  Sidney steals a befuddled glance at the clock.  "You have a game tonight, what the fuck are you doing?  You should be having your pre-game naps right now."  He looks at the nest with new eyes and feels a terrible, fluttery sensation in his chest.  "Oh my god.  Tell me you're not."

"Not napping here with you?"  Flower's eyes sparkle.  "Oh, we definitely are."

"Don't try to run," Tanger warns, narrow-eyed.

Geno straightens from where he'd been spreading out a last blanket over the pile and makes it to Sidney's side before he can act on any half-formed plans for escape.  He puts a gentle but obviously ready-to-restrain-if-needed hand on Sidney's shoulder.  Sidney blinks at it.

"You too, G?"

Geno just smiles down at him, his sly tongue poking in the side of his cheek the way he does when he thinks he's being funny and wants you to think so too.  Sidney's too awash with conflicting emotions to figure out how to respond.

He blames this for the way he ends up getting bundled into the center of the nest on his back with very little protest making it out his lips.

"Duper and Kuni wanted to come this first time too," Flower explains cheerfully as he climbs down next to Sidney and unceremoniously tucks himself in against his side.  "But we weren't sure there'd be enough room.  So they get next time."

"Next time?" Sidney croaks, every line of him tensed.  Flower's warm against him, Geno's eyes warmer as he smiles down at them, and Tanger's smirk is so satisfied—this is his _team_ , but they're not his right now, _hockey_ isn't his right now.  He can't forget that.

"Yeah, next time.  Every home game, captain."

A short, hurt whine sneaks out of Sidney, one he'd trade an hour of hockey to be able to snatch back.  He squeezes his eyes shut, but Flower tugs at his hip and rolls him until they're both on their sides, curled in facing each other, knees touching.

"Sid," Flower says, hushed, and Sidney's eyes open without his permission.  Flower's fond gaze is too close, but there's nowhere for Sidney to go.  "I don't know where you got the thought that being injured means you're not ours anymore, but you're wrong."

"Most wrong," Geno agrees, dropping into the open space behind Sidney.  "You're always our captain.  Concussion not change this."  He drapes himself around the curve of Sidney's back, and the tiny nudges and rearrangements he gives to Sidney are almost enough to distract him from noticing Tanger burying himself in against Flower's back in mirror of Geno.  "No one else enough bossy."

Sidney swallows.  Encased in teammates like this, almost like a celly on the ice, his thoughts feel slow and warm and thick.  There's an emotion seeping itself deep into his bones, and it's— _it's really stupid,_ is what it is.  He wants his rage back, but instead he feels moments away from bursting into tears.  He hasn't cried since he could count his human years on one hand.

"Lights," he manages to say, and there's a collective pause as everyone tries to figure out what he means.  "You pushy fucks forgot to have someone hit the lights."

Tanger swears and starts climbing out of the nest.  As he does, Sid adds, "And did someone set an alarm on their phone?"

"Me," says Geno in his ear.  Then, approvingly, "See?  Bossy."

The room dims, and Tanger grumpily resettles into his spot.  Flower yawns, squeezes Sidney's wrist, and closes his eyes.  Sidney can feel Geno's breathing stirring his hair.

His chest is overcrowded, trembly and aching and unsteady.  This is terrible.

"Sleep, Sid," Geno rumbles quietly, and, eventually, Sidney does.

 

Captain-naps, as they come to be called, last for every home game Sidney's in town for until he gets hockey back for good.  Not everyone joins in, but most of the team rotates through at least once or twice—Flower, Tanger, and Geno are regulars.  Sidney feels pathetic and human about it, but it helps, being surrounded by his team and a part of game-day rituals again.  It at least eases the restlessness enough that he can remember how to keep himself in check and behave mostly human.

And then he's _back_ —back for real, back for good, god help the fuck who tries to injure him next—and the captain-naps come to a natural end.  Sidney keeps the nest, though, moving it into one of the smaller spare rooms he doesn't really use for anything.  It's grown over the weeks, as teammates would occasionally bring their own additions to pad it, and it now stretches two mattresses wide.  His heart does something terribly human whenever he pops in to look at it.  He's glad to have hockey back, ravenous for it like a man starved, but the captain-naps remain a soft memory from months of bleak uncertainty.  Looking at the nest reminds him that—well, he's not exactly sure what it reminds him, but whenever he feels it he gets even more determined to be the best possible player for his team.

Flower finds the relocated nest one day, gives him a long look, but doesn't say anything.  A week later, two different guys on IR text him to ask if they can drop by to borrow the nest, and as easily as that captain-naps become a semi-regular tradition once again, this time for anyone injured and restless and feeling isolated from the team.  Sometimes Sidney joins them and sometimes he just lets them borrow his nest room, depending on how full the group already is and if he thinks anyone needs him there specifically.  It's a little strange, whenever he joins in—in that he's healed now and the group naps are obviously not for his benefit anymore.  It's different, but it's good.  He likes being able to help anchor some of his injured teammates back in if they need it; he even likes the very human measure of sympathy he's learned to feel for their impatience and apprehension.  That he's able to do this for them makes them all stronger as a team.

He doesn't start dating again.  He's learned better.  Hockey and sex are the two things he knows, and without them, he has no chance of coaxing true human love out of anyone.  If he only has a few years left, he doesn't want to spend them chasing his tail over something that just isn't going to work out—he wants to spend them focusing on what he came here for.

Maybe, outside of hockey, there just isn't enough person leftover inside of him to form human bonds.  Maybe demons really are just repellent to human love.  Maybe he made a stupid wager—and if so, the worst waste would be in letting it ruin the time he has left.

He has hockey back.  God fucking help him, he's not going to let anything take it from him again until his deal comes due.

 

* * *

 

In 2014, when Sidney has two years left before his 29th birthday, he plays in Sochi with an angel on the ice with him.  PK seems absolutely delighted by the opportunity, which only goes to show that Sidney will never understand angels.

"You're doing so great!" PK says after team practice one morning, grinning, an arm hooked around Sidney's shoulders.  "I knew you would, but man, you're just killing it.  Killing it!"  He squeezes once and doesn't let go.

Sidney smiles, pleased, and doesn't squirm away.  There's something nice about having his hockey accomplishments acknowledged by someone who knows exactly what he is.  He doesn't bother trying to define why it matters, and he doesn't bother wondering how PK can feel this way.  If this weird angel wants to be friendly with him, Sidney's not going to fight it.

For the rest of the Olympics, the two of them remain a sort of perpetual setup for a bad joke: an angel and a demon walk into a bar; an angel and a demon go out to lunch; an angel and a demon win gold together.  By the time they're both drunk on victory and champagne, Sidney feels comfortable enough to lean in and ask, "So what's the deal with Heaven's vendetta against hockey, anyway?"

PK's grin is as bright as the gold around their necks.  "What's that, vendetta?  No vendetta!  I'm down here, aren't I?  Claude too, and a couple of us in the KHL right now, and one in sledge hockey.  Heaven's cool with hockey."

"Sure, yeah," Sidney says agreeably.  "For you guys, for sure.  But when I got into hockey, I got slapped with a smiting warning if I persisted.  I had to go human to get around it, and even with that I know Claude's just waiting for me to switch back before he uses his license.  So I mean, what's Heaven's deal?"

"Claude?"  PK looks confused.  "Man, Claude's not here to smite you!"

"Yeah?" says Sidney, unconvinced.  "Then why's he down here?"

"Nah, listen, that's between the two of you.  You should ask him that yourself.  And Sid," PK's expression sobers a little, his smile gentling, "about the hockey.  I can't tell you everything, but just—do you know how unusual it is for a demon to get interested in something human like that, like you did?  It's really uncommon.  We've got certain rules we gotta follow when it happens, just in case.  Just how it is."

Sidney frowns.  He's pretty sure it's not just the alcohol speaking when he says, "That makes no sense."

PK nods.  "I hear you," he says.  "Sometimes Heaven's rules seem pretty complicated, even to us.  But they're important.  They help keep all the planes in balance."

"Really?  'Cause to me, smiting license sounds like it would be more dangerous to upsetting the balance than a little hockey."

"Yeah, you'd think so, right," PK agrees easily.  "But trust me, not always."

"Ugh."  Sidney can feel himself listing a little into PK's side—whatever was in that last drink was fucking strong.  "Heaven's annoying."

PK's laughter rings out, and he shifts so Sidney can settle more comfortably against him on the couch.  "Sometimes, yeah.  But we got a job to do, just like you guys.  Cut us a little slack, eh?"

Sidney grumbles, "No slack," but it's probably undermined by his head resting on PK's shoulder.  He notices Lu on the other half of the couch talking animatedly to Shea, both of them looking completely unaware of the unusual conversation taking place next to them, so Sidney figures PK's magic has been helping them stay discreet.

"At least they let you keep most of your magic," Sidney murmurs.  "That's handy.  Mine's all gone—except the venom, 'course.  But that's not magic, that's just—in the soul, you know?  No taking that away.  This is the closest I can get to human, but I guess it's close enough to keep your guys from smiting me."

PK hums.  "Do you wish you could kiss?"

Sidney twists to look up at him.  "Like, wish I could still infect people?  That would be—so stupid.  You remember what happened with Jack."

"No, I mean just kiss, like humans do.  No venom."

"Oh."  Sidney settles back down into his comfortable spot on PK's shoulder.  "Human experience, right?  It might be interesting, to see what it's like, I guess.  Can't be good as hockey, though," he muses.

"Do you want to try it?"

"I...what?"

"Try it."  He can hear PK's smile in his voice.  "Kissing, man.  I'm immune to your venom, right?  No pressure either way; it's just an offer if you're curious to try.  Uh, when you're a little less drunk."

Sidney pulls away to sit all the way up, the sudden shift making his head swim.

"You want to?" he asks, looking PK over.  His body language seems open and relaxed, his eyes strongly warm.  "But I'm—you know, and you're an angel.  That's like, the worst punchline."

"You're good Canadian boy Sidney Crosby," PK twinkles.  "Of course I want to."  He softens a little.  "Seriously, bud, I'd love to, if you're down with it.  Think it over and let me know if you're interested, 'kay?  No hard feelings either way."

"I want to," Sidney says.  "Right now?"

PK chuckles.  "Hey, I love a little post-victory make-out too, but I meant what I said about you being less drunk."

"But you can fix that, right?  Magic me sober, and then we can kiss."

PK's eyebrows raise, amused.  "Angel magic is not for facilitating faster make-outs, Sid."

Sidney considers this.  "Is that a...rule?  Or a guideline."

"It's not a rule," PK admits, grin deepening.

"So...maybe just this once?"

"Your roots are showing," PK says, but he's still smiling as he reaches gentle hands towards Sidney's head, so can't be really upset.  He places his fingertips in a half-circle around Sidney's eyes, and immediately Sidney can feel his drunkenness leaking away, leaving his thoughts sharp.  He looks at PK with clear eyes, none of his interest abated.

"What about you, are you drunk?"

"Not anymore," PK says with something like approval; Sidney's not sure what there is to approve of, but he brushes the thought aside.

"So we're good?  We can start?"

"We're good.  C'mere, lemme me show you how we do it."

He starts tugging Sid in closer by his medal, and Sid protests, smiling, "Incubus, remember?  I'm already the best at kissing."  What happened with Jack—the overwhelming intensity of his kiss—was surely an aberration.  Sidney no longer has a teenager's hormone-riddled body.

"We'll see what you can do without the venom," PK murmurs, grinning, and then their lips softly connect.

Sidney's both right and wrong.  The sensation isn't as immediately overwhelming as it had been with Jack, but it's still a little shocking how powerfully sweet it is.  He makes a curious noise and presses closer, seeking more of the feeling, and gets PK's long fingers sliding up to rest along the sides of his neck.

PK keeps the kiss gentle and patient, but there's something about the care he takes, the friendly warmth that infuses his every move, that makes Sidney prickle with a low heat.  It's not the same flashfire of want he had with Jack, but it's...compelling.  PK uses his kisses like speech, like he's carefully telling Sidney all the ways he respects and admires and appreciates him with each deliberate press and nip of his lips.

Clearly there's something getting lost in the translation, because angels don't respect demons, not even weird ones like PK, but it's still nice.  Sidney makes to deepen the kiss, pressing his tongue along PK's lips.  PK lets him but only just.  The kiss stays shallow, not dipping beyond their teeth, light and tender.

There's a zing of something electric in PK's taste that Sidney thinks might be his grace, and he wonders if his taste is Hellfire ashy to PK's tongue.  He hopes it's not unpleasant, but it probably must be, at least a little.  If it is, PK doesn't show any sign of caring enough to stop.

Sidney's skin tingles with awareness.  Arousal threads within him, but it's almost an arousal of the whole body, the sexual element secondary.  It would be easy to stir it into something heatedly sexual; the spark is there.  But Sidney doesn't.  He knows how to read a play and how to trust a teammate, and PK seems to want to keep things right in this zone of slow and sweet and soft.

Still, he can't help showing off, just a little.  Sidney used to make queens and generals and Cup-winning goalies beg for his touch; he thinks he can manage to make one weird angel a little breathless.

"Alright, alright," PK laughs appreciatively, pulling back after few minutes.  "You weren't lying about having some moves."  His lower lip is slick and shiny, and a pleasant curl of heat loops through Sidney's gut.

"More?" he asks, licking his lips.  "You want to keep going?"

"Oh you bet your ass I do," PK grins and reels him back in.  As they meet, their medals clink and twist between them.

 

So Sidney might be friends with an angel.  That might be a thing.  He's not really sure what to do with it, but it nets him the number of a new tailor and the experience of what it's like to kiss as a human.  There are worse things, he supposes.  He doesn't know what PK gets out of it, but that's not Sidney's problem to worry about.  There's hockey to play and his deal counting down.

 

"You like kids?" Geno asks him one day, what feels a little out of the blue to Sidney.  They're just finishing up practice, and Geno is lingering on the ice with an unusual amount of post-practice dawdling, hovering near Sidney and sliding his skates back and forth idly.

"Kids are pretty great," Sidney agrees distractedly.  He takes a tight turn, evaluating how today's skate sharpening worked out.  He's been playing around with a slightly shallower hollow on his blades, because they have some California games coming up next and the ice is always softer there, and he's not sure he's got it quite right for what he's looking for.

When he's satisfied he knows how much to adjust next sharpening, he heads for the tunnel.  Geno trails after.

"Want kids ever?"

Sidney glances over at him, gliding to a stop just at the edge of the rink.  "Want kids, like, my own kids?  To raise?"

Geno nods, stopping next to him.

"Oh."  Sidney wasn't lying about thinking kids are pretty great.  Their love of hockey is so straightforward and untouched by bullshit, and watching them play always reminds him of his own scrambling steps to learn hockey, before he had a human body of his own.  It's a lot of the reason why he started the Little Penguins program a few years ago—short of playing hockey himself, he can think of few things better than getting all that straightforward enthusiasm out on the ice, especially when, otherwise, the kids might not ever get the chance to play.  He remembers what it was like, before the Crosbys adopted him, to barely even be able to afford skates.  Even with the Crosbys money was tight, near all of it going towards his gear and classes and league fees.

"Just thinking," Geno says, unhooking his chin strap, "you always so sweet with kids, wonder if you want someday, you know?"

Sidney's not sweet.  There's just no reason to be nasty to kids, either.  They're tiny and soft and harmless.

He doesn't say any of this.

"I dunno, G.  Maybe when I'm done with hockey?  I don't exactly have time to be a parent right now."

Geno nods thoughtfully.  "Hard, when just you."

"Yeah."  That's totally not the issue, but better to let Geno think that.  Sidney steps off the ice, twisting a bit as he walks to say over his shoulder, "What about you?  You want kids someday?"

"Maybe."  Geno smiles a little, lumbering after.  "Hard when just me."

"For sure, yeah.  Someday, G.  You'll get there.  How are things going with…?"  Sidney's forgotten her name.  Something with an L?

"Lillian," Geno supplies.  "We break up last week."

"Shit."  Sidney stops walking.  "Are you doing okay?"

"Little sad, okay though.  Not serious, you know, only few weeks."  Geno nudges him into continuing walking.

"Still.  Shit.  I'm sorry, G."

"Yeah.  I'm sorry too.  I think maybe this time, but…"  He shrugs.  "Not meant to work."

Geno doesn't have as poor a dating record as Sidney, but sometimes it feels like he does.  Or maybe it's just that he always seems to get his heart bruised so easily, that the failures stick out all the more starkly.

"You want to come over tonight?" Sidney asks.  "We can get drunk and watch terrible movies."  This is what friends do for friends who've just broken off a relationship, he's pretty sure.  Or it's at least what the French Canadians had done with him after Mireya, and he hadn't minded it.

"Yeah?  You own terrible movies?  Admit this?"

"Good point.  Your place, then?"

Geno laughs as they round the corner into the dressing room, which is still milling with most of the team.  "Okay, Sid.  You come over tonight.  I pick out best worst movie for you.  Bring beer?"

"Wine," Sidney says firmly.  Wine, according to Flower, was essential for these sorts of things.

"Wine makes you sleepiest," said Geno thoughtfully, but it's not a no.  "Okay?"

Sidney starts shucking out of his practice jersey.  "It's not the first time I've crashed in your guest room."  He pauses.  "That's okay tonight, right?"

"Course, Sid."  Geno smiles, tongue between his teeth.  "Make you breakfast in morning too, treat you best."

"You never make me breakfast, G, what the fuck," accuses Duper, near enough to overhear, stripped down to his Under Armour and grinning softly.

"Too ugly, fuck off," Geno shoots back without looking.  He drops onto a bench and starts tugging at his laces.  Duper just laughs.

Flower, damp with sweat, wanders up, drawn by the laughter.

"What's going on, someone said something about breakfast?"

"Not for you, nosy.  Go away."

Sid finishes stripping down, tuning out most of the rest of the conversation.  Removing gear is a well-worn, grounding routine, and he lets the familiarity of it wash over him.  Then, skates in hand, he interrupts to ask, "Hey, anyone know where Dana is?"

Flower, still grinning about whatever shit he and Duper had been giving Geno, waves in the general direction of the sharpening room.  "Last I saw."

"Perfect."  Sidney pauses as he's leaving and looks to Geno.  "So, like, eight o'clock?"

Geno shoves a palm in Flower's delighted face, not looking away from Sid.  "Eight o'clock good."

Sidney nods firmly and continues on towards Dana.  He still needs to go over the skate situation with him.

Behind him, he hears Geno gloating, "No, you fucks not invited, just for Sid and me, fuck off."  He smiles and keeps walking.

 

Over the next year, the injury nest in Sidney's spare room seems to grow a revolving door.  Duper's blood clot, Tanger's stroke, Olli's cancer—the fucking mumps are the last straw.

He summons Samuel.

"Sidney!"  Samuel paces lazily where the summoning circle allows, his true form forced to the surface.  "Good to see you.  You're looking...hm."  He eyes Sidney's swollen face, red eyes glowing.  "Ouch."

"Are you doing this?"

Samuel looks amused.  "Hey now, you know our contract as well as I do.  I can't cause you any injury or illness, even indirectly."

"What about the rest of the team, though.  Dupuis, Letang, Määttä.  Are you fucking with them?"

Samuel tilts his head.  "Why would I?"

And…Sidney supposes he has a point.  Samuel has nothing to gain by injuring his team, except for a cruel enjoyment, and demons don't really bother expending extra energy on cruelty just for it's own pleasure.

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking.  So none of this is your doing?"

"It's not," Samuel says, and that's when the summoning circle runs out with a quiet _hiss_.  He magics up a human facade, smoky form dissipating into a sharp-jawed blond, and steps free.  "This has been interesting, though.  Anything else?  Just want to chat?  Been missing Hell?  I don't know how you stand the ice so much, it's always so fucking cold up here even without fucking around on a sheet of ice."

"Easier human," Sidney says absently, rubbing his brow.  "Fuck.  So all of this has just been, what, really fucking bad luck?"

Samuel shrugs.  "Looks like.  Maybe check if one of you have picked up an imp?  Though this is a little darker than their usual mischief."  He grins.  "Maybe a rival team made a deal with one of my kind.  That would be amusing."

"Ugh.  Okay, well, thanks for coming."

"You summoned me."

"Right.  I hope that didn't inconvenience you."

"And if I said I was in the middle of a closing an important deal?"

"Yeah, don't push your luck," Sidney says flatly.  "I don't owe you anything for a summoning, no matter what you were in the middle of.  I'm not stupid."

"Worth a try.  How's our little wager going for you?  The deadline's not far."

Sidney tightens his jaw.  "I've got a few options I'm pursuing."

"I'd expect you would.  I'll say goodbye then, Sidney.  I'll see you again soon."  Samuel vanishes with a dangerously friendly smile.

Sidney investigates, but he finds no sign of an imp or a Hell-wrought deal responsible for the team's rash of injuries.  It's just shitty luck at work again.  He hates shitty luck.  He can't protect his team from the whims of fate—what fucking use is he as a captain with his teammates dropping like flies around him?

His deal ticks down and down and down.

 

In 2015, with one year left and no human love guaranteed yet to extend his time, Sidney plays on international ice with an angel once again—it's just not PK this time.  PK still thinks it's fantastic, however, sending Sid a barrage of happy texts when the news hits that, following the Penguins' frustrating first round elimination, Sidney Crosby will play at Worlds.  With Claude Giroux.

 **He's going to smite me when I get there,** Sidney texts dourly in reply.   **Just watch.**

**He's not going to smite you.  Have fun!! Kick some ass out there!! Just not Claude's ass lmao**

Angels have terrible senses of humor.

"Demons have terrible senses of humor," is the first thing Claude says to him when they see each other face-to-face in Prague.  "Unless it wasn't a joke.  Do you really think I'm going to smite you?   _Before_ we win gold?"

Sidney narrows his eyes.  "PK talked to you."

"He texted me.  So, tell me, are you going to be an ass?  Try to drop the gloves in practice, trip me on the ice, spit in my food?  Break my wrists again?"

"I didn't—c'mon, I didn't break your fucking wrists.  Besides, even if I did, you could have just healed them, I don't know what the big deal is."

"I don't have healing magic, I'm not that kind of angel.  Seriously, are you here to be an ass, Croz?"

Sidney bites back his first answer and just says, "I'm here to play hockey.  If that's what you're here for, then we won't have a problem."

"Okay, great.  So let's play some fucking hockey, huh?"

They do.

It's pretty great hockey.

Damn it.

By the gold medal game, a few powerplay goals together under their belts, they've even worked their way up to actual cellys that don't feel entirely hesitant and awkward.  Sidney isn't really equipped to hold onto dislike in the face of hockey that's clicking like theirs is, and he's not in the habit of wasting energy over anyone not actively trying to get in the way of what he wants.  In his head he's already declared a temporary pause on any bad feeling between them.  Only Claude knows where his _own_ head is on the matter, but he at least doesn't exhibit any signs of animosity.  They both make it work better than Sidney thought they would.

During warm-ups before that final game, Sidney smells a whiff of Hellsmoke and stiffens.  He scans the ice first, but everything's normal there, unless you count a Claude who's giving him a curious look that's neither mocking nor hostile.  Then he looks to the stands and spots it.

It's a demon, looking like a little girl, a few rows up.  She's wearing a Team Canada jersey with a C on the chest.  She appears to be about nine years old, her hair dark and curly, and her soul is oddly faint and thin through her human facade.  She's staring straight at him.  When she sees him staring back she grins and waves.

Sidney blinks.

He hears Claude approach, stopping next to him against the boards by the bench.

"Everything okay?" Claude asks lowly.  He nods subtly at the demon.  "Problem?"

"I...don't know.  I don't know what she's doing here."

Claude glances at the demon beneath his lashes, then looks to Sidney.

"Well, I'm pretty sure she's here to see a hockey game."

The girl's eyes roam all over the ice, faking well a childish wide excitement, but they keep coming back to Sidney.

Sidney narrowly resists the urge to bare his teeth in snarling warning.

"Demons don't just go to hockey games, we've no reason to.  I can't tell what kind of demon she is, but she shouldn't be here.  I don't know what she's trying to pull."

The look Claude gives him is witheringly unimpressed.  "You really can't think of any reason a demon would want to go to a hockey game.  Really."

"Are you seriously saying—?  Come on, what are the odds of _two_ demons getting interested in human hockey?"

Claude shrugs, adjusting his helmet strap.  "You say it like the two are unrelated.  I won't tell you her whole story, but I can tell you she learned about hockey because of you."  At Sidney's sharp look, he goes on, "What, you thought nobody in Hell heard about your deal?  Most just think you're weird, yeah, but a couple paid attention.  She's one—got curious, discovered hockey for herself, made a deal of her own.  Here she is."

Sidney startles.  "She's like me right now, born human?"

"Yep."

They both look up at the girl.  She smiles at Sidney.  Then she flips Claude off.

Sidney laughs and skates away as the man next to her, probably her father, notices her finger and starts scolding her.  Her petulant scowl is the last thing he sees before he turns his attention fully to the ice again.

"It's not funny," says Claude, skating after him, but Sidney can see his lips twitching.

They win gold, an unexpected 6-1 bloodbath.  Geno is the one who keeps Russia from being shut out, a tricky deflection in the third, too late to be anything but a token goal.

As the game winds down and Canada's victory is all but assured, Sidney relishes the fierce satisfaction and anticipation building within him.  But he can practically feel Geno's harsh frustration from across the ice, and it tugs painfully at his chest.  It tempers his satisfaction, just a little.  He knows about the injury Geno's trying to play through, the fucking idiot, so determined to bring gold to the country he loves so much.  He knows how hard Geno's tried to turn the tide of the game.

Silver never feels good enough.  Sidney's glad it's not him who'll have to take the losing medal, but he wishes it weren't Geno, either.

There's shit-all he can do about that though, so he hugs Geno in the handshake line, close and sweaty and warm, then lets him go and refocuses.  Geno's sad and so fucking weary and nothing Sidney can do anything about right now.

After the game he sees his family briefly, who had flown out for the end of the tournament.  He wraps an arm around Taylor and presses a smacking kiss to the top of her head while she grins.

"Great job," she says, squeezing him, and his whole chest warms.  He chats happily with her and their parents, basking a little in the easy glow of their company, then he heads out with the team to celebrate.

It's weird to celebrate a victory with Claude, but the weirdness is almost just a footnote by this point in the tournament.  Claude's an amiable drunk, loose and calm and pleased with everyone.  Sidney finds himself near his side more than once, and sometimes their eyes catch, both of them flushed with alcohol and happiness.

He figures he's not going to get a better chance to take PK's advice.  Late into the night, when the alcohol's still flowing but the celebrations have grown quieter, he finds Claude.  Sitting down next to him, says, "Hey, can you switch us onto privacy mode for a minute?"

Claude gives him a look he now knows is dryly amused.  "Privacy mode, really?  What did I tell you about demons and your senses of humor."  He rolls one shoulder, then nods.  "Yeah, we're good.  No one's overhearing.  What's up?"

"PK said I should ask you why you're here."

"Uh, the same reason you're here?"  Claude waves his medal in one fist.  "The tournament?"

"No, not here in Prague.  I mean, why are you down here?  Why did you decide to take an Earth-shift right now?  Why learn to play hockey at all?"

"Oh."  Claude tilts his head, considering.  "Wait.  Why do you think I'm down here?"

Sidney raises an eyebrow.  "You took an Earth-shift right after I made a deal to come play hockey—which was right after you told me you'd smite me if I ever tried to play hockey again.  Why do you _think_ I think you're down here?"

"Oh."  Claude still looks amused, and maybe a little—regretful?  "Huh."

"But PK said I should ask you.  So...this is me, asking."

"Shit, Sid."  Claude rubs a hand through his cropped orange curls—a ridiculous hair color, really—and when he looks up again his smile is definitely regretful.  "Your case got assigned to another angel after you got your human body.  Whatever happens to you when your deal ends, it's not gonna be my call."

"Oh."  Sidney swallows.  "So.  You don't have smiting license anymore.  You personally, I mean."

"Yeah, that got handed off with your case.  I'm honestly not here to smite you."

"Disappointed?"

"You gonna believe me when I say I'm not?"

Sidney doesn't answer this.  Instead he says, "So if you're not here to smite me when my deal's up, why _are_ you here?"

Claude bites his lip, like holding back a grin.  Humor brims in his eyes, but his tone is perfectly sincere when he says, "I came because I wanted to play hockey with you."

"...What."

The grin emerges fully, and Claude laughs.  "Wow, I'd've told you _years_ ago if I'd known that'd be the face you'd make."  He shakes his head, eyes crinkling.  "I'm serious, though.  I don't necessarily mean on the same team, though fuck if I haven't enjoyed this too.  I…you made me curious.  When you wouldn't give hockey up even with the smiting warning.  I wanted to figure out what was so great about it, and…" His smile cracks even wider.  "And you know how it is.  I fell in love with it.  I wanted to play, and I wanted to play with you.  I saw how fucking determined you were, you crazy-ass demon; I knew you were gonna come up here and light the whole place up.  I wasn't gonna just let you have all the fun."

Sidney can only stare.  "You just...wanted to play hockey.  At the same time as me?"  Claude nods.  "Oh...oh my god."  He has to laugh, as the reality of the truth hits him, and once he starts he can't seem to stop.  Soon he's full-body giggling, clutching his chest, and Claude's face creases with laughter as well.  "And you became a fucking Flyer!  I mean, a _Flyer_ , really?  What, the angel-demon rivalry wasn't enough?"

"Well I didn't do it on purpose.  But it's been pretty great, right?  We've had fun."

"I think you've got a skewed idea of 'fun', for an angel."

Claude flashes teeth at him, lazy and warm.  "Maybe.  Or maybe you don't know angels as well as you think.  And man, don't even try to tell me some of your favorite games haven't come against the Flyers.  I know."

"Well."  Sidney shares the grin.  "Only when we win."

Claude snorts.  He takes swig of beer, swallows, and says, "Shoulda seen that one coming."  He nods towards a bundle of nearby laughing teammates.  "So, heads up, but Segs keeps thinking about something he wants to talk to you about, and my magic won't be able to distract him from it much longer.  I'm gonna drop privacy mode, 'kay?"

"Yeah, it's good.  And, thanks."

Claude fucking winks at him.  "You're not all bad, Croz, are you."

Sidney just rolls his eyes and turns to greet Segs, approaching as promised with a wide grin.

Angels are weird.

 

* * *

 

Sidney's last season in the NHL gets off to a shit start.

Why—the system, the coaching, his own fucking play—he can't say for sure, he just knows nothing is working how it should.  He's off; it shows.  The hockey world is buzzing with false pity like he's already past his prime, like he's _done_.  He seethes, but fear whispers.  If this is his last year, it can't end like this.

It doesn't help that Duper is driving him crazy.

It's stupid, and it doesn't make sense.  Sidney should be glad Duper's trying so hard, even unknowingly, to stay out here on the ice with him for what will likely be Sidney's last year.  He should approve of Duper still playing despite the warning signs that his body might not be able to take it anymore: it's exactly what he himself would do.  But instead it's pissing him off.

He doesn't have time to deal with the way his chest burns with fear every time Duper has to leave a game early as a precaution.  He doesn't have energy to spare on all this fucking worrying he's doing every time he catches Duper hiding a moment of weakness like he thinks Sidney _can't fucking use his eyes._  He should be spending his time figuring out why he's not even getting scoring chances anymore, not stressing over whether or not Duper is on the brink of putting himself back in the hospital, maybe for good this time.

He's not the only one distracted.  Tanger's got a permanent edge these days, sharp and cruel; Flower's smile is getting weaker and weaker at disguising the disquiet in his eyes; Kuni's shoulders carry an extra weight; Geno's gaze is always heavy when it rests on Duper.  They're all jarred out of alignment, and Sidney's too caught in his own shit to know how to lead them out of it.

His deadline looms.  Panic sits permanently in his throat, in his lungs.  He plays through, more determined than ever, but for once, determination paired with hours of hard work isn't making a difference.

He overhears Duper and Flower speaking in private one day, about two months into the season.

Sidney's French, like his English, had to be relearned when he went human and no longer had his magic to help it roll effortlessly off his tongue.  Unlike his English, however, he's never really gotten back to the same level of proficiency.  But he understands enough.

"How much more, Pascal?" Flower's saying, voice pitched low.  "How much more can you really take of this?"

"It's all right," Duper murmurs back.  "You know everything's okay.  We're watching everything so carefully."

" _Do_ I know everything's okay?  Would you need to be watching so carefully if everything were okay?"

Duper's voice is pained.  "Please, don't do this."

"Do what?  Care about you?  Care that you might end up doing something you can't recover from?"

"Marc."

"We love you.  We _all_ love you.  Watching you like this, it's _killing_ —" Flower chokes off, and Sidney silently slips out of the hallway in the opposite direction, leaving them alone.

His chest is burning again.

Early into December, Duper knocks on Sidney's hotel door.  His face is sober and drawn when Sidney opens, and Sidney…Sidney just knows.

The official announcement gets made to the team the next morning.  Sidney listens with his eyes half hidden by his baseball cap, standing next to Duper in steady support.

"Sid," Geno finds him afterwards.  He's the one who looks devastated, but he asks, "You okay?"

"We'll get there," Sidney says firmly.  Anything else is unacceptable.

"Yeah."  Geno rubs at his face with the heel of his hand, eyes red.  "Fuck.  You—you know already?  You look like not surprise."

"Last night, yeah.  Duper needed—someone else to know."  Duper had tried to apologize, too, but Sidney'd had none of it.  He's not sure what he wants from Duper right now, but he knows an apology isn't it.  "Look, the media guys are going to want interviews.  I'll take the first batch, okay?  I've had more warning, I'm a little more composed right now."

"Sure?"

Sidney nods.  "Keep an eye on everyone here, 'kay?"

Sidney's interview goes fine up until he feels a tickle in the back of his throat and a burning behind his eyes and realizes he's about to _cry_ , what the _fuck_.  He ends the interview early and gracelessly finds a private corner to get a handle on himself.  He doesn't ever cry, not since he was a kid—not during his concussion, not when he broke his jaw, not once.

He cries now, thinking of everything the team will lose without Duper there and everything Duper will never have again.

Sidney could have played hockey anywhere with anyone and it would have been good, because it would have been hockey.  But Duper made it special—the way Geno makes it special, the way Flower does.  Duper can't ever be replicated.

Fierce and determined, Sidney clears his tears and goes back to finish his interview.  This is _important._ Duper needs to know how appreciated he is.  The team loves him, and Sidney is as close to loving him as his stupid Hell-born soul is capable of.  Duper won't have hockey anymore, but he'll still have his team.

 

The changes come fast and hard after Duper's retirement is announced: Sullivan in for Johnston, Daley for Scuds, Hagelin for Perry.  None of it shakes Sidney.  He's focused, perhaps the most focused he's ever been in all of his centuries, and he's going to drag his team to the playoffs if he has to score every goal himself.

In the end, dragging isn't required.  It takes a little time, but soon the whole team is on fire, like everyone's fed off his hunger and infused it with their own ferocious, joyful determination.  They blaze into the playoffs, grabbing the second seed in their conference.

Sidney doesn't let himself think about anything that isn't hockey.  He just plays his fiercest and shuts his brain off for anything else.  If he even starts to think about how this will be his last—

No.  He plays.  He buries into his team, clutching them close and reveling in their sharp-toothed ardor.  He plays.

He plays.

He wins.

 

They fucking win.

 

When he lifts the Cup again, seven years after the first, crisp metal against his palms, every color slides too bright and sharp, even inside that damned dim tank San Jose calls a rink.  Every sound quavers, faint over the roaring in his ears.  He thinks he's going to burst straight out of his human skin in triumph and pure fucking _relief_.  He didn't waste his last year.  They made it.

The party afterwards stretches on into surreal hours.  Sidney should be drunk as fuck, with how much alcohol he's downed, but he feels above the clouds, terminally sober and clear-eyed.

Roused sexual energy has been soaring among the team all night, a product of winning, and Sidney's been feeding from it steadily.  With how little he's used to needing to eat these days, tonight should be enough to last his demon soul for months.

"Sid!"  It's Geno, long and flushed and looking so fucking happy, dropping to sit heavy against his side on the bed, up against the headboard.  Sidney grins at him.

"Hey, G."

"Need more drink?  Food?  Okay?"

"Nah, I'm good."

They've migrated from the SAP Center to the hotel, first to a conference room and now to their actual floor, the bulk of them spread out across several bedrooms.  The families have all gone for the night and it's just team left now, most of them too close to passing out to be in public.  In fact, he's pretty sure Schultzy, curled up by his feet on the end of the bed, is already down for the count.  He prods him with his toe to make sure he's still breathing, and Schultzy stirs and stretches.  Not quite passed out, then.

"Sid."  Geno claims his attention again, grabbing and holding his hand until Sidney looks back at him.  "Sid, listen.  Have to tell you something.  Okay?"

"Sure, yeah.  Go for it."  Sidney is loose and pleased with everything, but especially with Geno, warm and unbelievably familiar against him.  Fucking wonderful Geno.  Sidney could play at his side for a century and never once need to doubt his loyalty and passion.  He'd been overwhelmed by it earlier tonight, back in the locker room—overwhelmed by the realization of everything they'd accomplished together, the joint mark they'd forever left on their team.  He'd had to hide his face in Geno's neck for a moment, overcome by gratitude, and Geno had wrapped his arms around him and not stopped grinning for hours.

He's not grinning now, but happiness is still in every crease of him as he looks at Sidney.

"Listen.  Okay?  Important.  Listen."

Sidney laughs and melts a little closer to Geno.  "Yeah, I'm listening!  What is it?"

"Have to tell you, I love you.  Love you so much.  So fucking much, Sid."

Sidney blinks in surprise, laughter's smile still on his face.  "Yeah?  God, you're an affectionate drunk, how do I always forget that.  I love you too, G.  You're incredible."

"No, _listen_.  You miss part of what I'm say.  Always miss.  I'm tell you I love you like—" Geno pauses and looks around, then spots Flower through the other bodies in the room, standing by the window and inexplicably staring at the pair of them on the bed with wide eyes.  "Love you like Flower and Vero.  Love you like marry, like take out on dates, maybe have kids one day."  His hand hovers hesitantly by Sidney's face, as if he's going to cup it, but it drops to Sidney's shoulder and squeezes instead.  " _Love_ you."

"Oh my god," says Flower loudly, before Sidney's thoughts can even begin to unfreeze.  "Are you seriously doing this _now_?  Okay, that's it, everybody out!"  He starts pulling up drunken bodies, herding everyone towards the door.  "We're gonna move rooms again, let's go."

"They're gonna do it?  Finally," Horny's saying, gathering up a fuzzily smiling Hags from where he'd commandeered the comfiest chair.  "Kuni, grab the Cup?"

"Yeah, got it."  Kuni snatches up the Cup from the coffee table by the couch then pauses to direct a measuring look at Sidney and Geno.  He seems to decide against whatever he was going to say and instead just shoots a wink at Geno, heading out the door.

"What's happening?"  Shears pokes his head out of the bathroom, Rusty and Muzz at his back, and gets dragged out and thrust towards the door by Flower.

"Changing rooms, let's go.  Anyone know what room Tanger ended up in?  We're going there.  Horny, you're gonna need to sit on him if he tries to come in here and interfere."

"Yep.  On it."

Horny and Hags are the last to stumble out, gently shutting the door behind them, and so in very short order Sidney and Geno are left completely alone.

Except, well, for Schultzy, snoozing by their feet.  He's still there.

"What's going on?" Sidney asks, but he's not stupid.   It's more of a bid to buy time to process than a genuine question.

"You know," says Geno, looking at him fondly and not looking away to give Sidney time to _breathe_.  "You hear what I say, you know."

"How drunk are you right now?" Sidney tries next, grasping.

"Little bit drunk," Geno admits.  "So we talk again in morning, if you want.  I'm know what I say, Sid.  Mean it.  Drunk only help little bit for courage."  He suddenly frowns.  "Fuck.  You drunk, too," he says like it's only just occurring to him.  "Not fair to tell—okay, okay, forget what I'm say!  I tell you again tomorrow."

"Yeah, no, that's not gonna happen."  Sidney tries to straighten up away from the headboard, and it's only when it sends the world tilting precariously that he finally starts to feel drunk.  He steadies himself on Geno's thigh.  "Ugh, okay.  I need—I need you to tell me exactly what you mean, and exactly what you want, and I—you—"  He looks up at Geno's gentle face, eyes wide.  Geno's got his hand tucked in his again, resting there on his leg, and Sid's chest is doing something extremely unsanctioned.  Suddenly raspy, he asks, "Do you mean it?"

"Mean it.  I love you for years, Sid, and think maybe now ready to try do something about it.  I know for you—no sex, no kissing, I don't care.  Want to try date.  If—if you want too."  He ducks his head.  "If definite no for you, okay to tell me now, I still love you like friend, very important to me, not fuck anything up.  But, if...maybe yes?  If maybe yes, you think about during summer, okay, tell me answer when back in Pittsburgh, after summer?"

"G, I…" Sidney swallows, and Geno hurriedly jumps in again.

"Serious, Sid—if no, can tell me now, but if yes, should wait for after summer.  Big decision, should think about.  I already think about for long time, but I think I'm surprise you, tonight."

Surprise is an understatement.  Sidney knows Geno gets aroused by him sometimes—but he also knows better than anyone how often people turn each other on without it meaning they actually _want_ anything.  He hadn't ever considered it might mean Geno felt something—something like this.

"Okay," Sidney says hoarsely.  "Okay.  I'll think about it."

Geno's face splits into a huge smile.  "Okay.  Good."  He squeezes Sidney's hand, then lets go.  "I'm so happy, Sid.  You know?  Even if you decide—no, don't want same way, I'm still so happy I finally tell you.  Been holding in my chest for so long, want to tell you how— _big_ you are for me, how important.  How much I love."  He clears his throat suddenly.  "But I'm not say—not to pressure!"  He looks around the emptied room.  "Maybe we go find team again?  Give you space right now."

"I don't need space."  Sidney's a little off balance, but this is still just Geno.  He doesn't ever need space from Geno.  And he's not sure he's ready to go rejoin the migratory party just yet and have to deal with the fact that his team full of hockey players apparently already knew about Geno's feelings when he, a fucking sex demon, couldn't catch a clue.

"Okay.  Stay here for little bit?  Make sure Schultzy not choke in sleep?"

"Yeah.  Let's just...sit a bit.  Unless you want to go?"

"Good here."

Uncertain, Sidney reaches out and takes Geno's hand one more time.  "Is this okay?  If we do this?"

Geno wraps his hand tighter, warm and safe, and smiles over at him.  "Perfect."

There's a pause.  Then Geno adds, with a heavy sigh, "Shit.  Tanger going to kill me, though.  He always tell me not to do this when drunk.  'Not romantic!' he say."

"I thought it was fine," Sidney says.  He leans in a little more, until their sides are flush.  "And I'll...I'll let you know."

"Not in hurry.  Still have all the time we need."

Sidney tucks his head against Geno's shoulder and, for the first time in a long while, wonders if maybe they actually do.

 

Geno loves him.  Or thinks he does.  Sidney's not sure yet if demons can be loved, but if Geno does love him—if Geno _can_ —

Fuck.  Sidney had given up on winning the wager.  Now desperate, grasping hope consumes him, and—fuck.  Geno loves him.

Or thinks he does.

 

Sidney thinks about it all summer.

The team had been remarkably restrained during all the rest of the Cup celebrations, sticking with only a few significant looks and seeming content to wait until Sid and Geno were ready to tell them anything.  When they'd parted ways, Geno had only given him a hug, the same hug he's given him every year before, and said, "See you at World Cup, okay?"  Sidney hadn't known whether to cling to his team, soak up the last time he might ever see them, or let himself look forward to possibly hitting the ice with them again next season.

Could Sidney have had Geno for years?  Would Geno have wanted—?  It doesn't matter.  In the end, Geno either loves him enough to count for the wager, or he doesn't.  Sidney will either live past his birthday this year, or he'll go back to his demon body, following which he'll either be smote by the angels or live forever in service of Samuel.  The only choice truly left in his own hands is whether or not to believe Geno when he says he loves him.

He spends most of the summer with Taylor, just in case he never— Just in case.  She doesn't call him out on his distraction, but he knows she can tell he's chewing something big around in his brain.  Most days, she just tugs him to the rink, climbs into her goalie pads, and lets him shoot pucks at the net behind her, just like when they were kids.  It helps, probably more than she realizes.

Three days from his 29th birthday, he texts Geno.

**I know you wanted to wait until we're back in Pittsburgh together, but I have an answer for you.**

His phone rings in his hand thirty seconds later.

 _"Sid?"_ Geno's voice says breathlessly when he picks up.   _"Sid, decide already?  For sure?"_

"Yeah, I'm sure."

 _"Don't want to wait, think little more?"_  Geno sounds—nervous.  Sidney realizes abruptly that he thinks Sidney's going to tell him _no._  It tugs at his chest, and—fuck, Geno deserves better than Sidney's sort.  But Sidney needs him.

"I'm not going to change my mind," he says evenly.  "G, I want to try with you.  I want to date.  I—that's my answer.  I want to date you, and I—I love you.  I love you too." The lie sits sour on his tongue.  He can't love.  But, like with Duper, this is the closest he can get.  If he survives his birthday, he'll find a way to make it up to Geno.

There's a long pause on the other end of the line.  Shit, he didn't think—

"I mean, if you're still interested," he babbles.  Did he make Geno wait too long?  "I understand if you changed your mind or—"

 _"Sid,"_ Geno finally interrupts. _"Fuck, Sid, I'm so happy.  Of course I'm not change my mind.  I'm worry little bit during summer, you know, if I fuck up when I'm tell you I love, but you—you love too.  You love me too."_

"Yeah, G."  Sidney's voice cracks, and he'd be a terrible person if he were a person at all.  "I love you."

_"Me too.  Love you, fuck, so much.  You make me so happy.  Can't wait to see you again!  Want to take you to—every nice restaurant, go to zoo, take you everywhere.  I'm best date, show you."_

The giddiness in Geno's voice is almost too much, and Sidney's grip on his phone tightens.

"That sounds great.  I can't wait either."

_"Maybe...I come back little early?  Before World Cup, couple weeks."_

"Yeah, for sure.  That sounds—perfect.  We can spend some time together then.  And—thanks, for giving me time to think.  For being patient."

 _"Tell you already, is important,"_ Geno says warmly.   _"Want you to be sure."_

"Well.  I'm sure."

_"I'm sure too.  Want this so long but not—not sure if good idea.  Not sure if ready."_

"Yeah?  What—what changed your mind?"

_"Not one thing, you know?  Just think—not kids anymore, you and me, we know each other so long.  Maybe just finally brave enough, to trust we not fuck up.  Even if not work, can trust we not fuck up.  Just felt like right time, you know?"_

"Yeah," Sidney croaks.  "It feels like the right time to me too."

Geno laughs, sounding breathless, relieved, young.   _"Oh, fuck!  I'm so happy, Sid.  Was so nervous I fuck up.  Never know for sure if you feel same—I'm so happy."_

"Yeah.  I am too, G."

Sidney's a fucking monster.  But that's nothing new.

 

Samuel, with predictable punctuality, shows up one minute into Sidney's birthday.  Sidney's in his kitchen in Canada, waiting for him.

"So."  Samuel eyes the room, particularly the chair across from Sidney, already pulled out and ready for him to sit.  He takes it slowly, and Sidney recognizes a demon's wariness.  Samuel probably learned long ago to watch for tricks on days when his deals come due for collection.  "Here we are."

"Here we are."

Samuel's wearing the human body he wore when Sidney first met him, broad and strong.  When he smiles it looks empty.

"Happy birthday, Sidney.  Should we get straight to settling up?  Or do you have someone you think could win our wager for you?"

"I've got someone."  Sidney doesn't shift in his chair, doesn't clear his throat, doesn't lower his eyes—doesn't do anything to betray any uncertainty.  "Geno.  I'm gonna go with Geno."

Samuel's eyebrows raise.  "Malkin?  Huh.  You know, I could never make up my mind if you'd be more likely to go with him or with Fleury.  All right, your call, Malkin it is.  Let's not waste any time, then.  I'm fucking starving."

"You're pretty sure you'll be feeding from me tonight."

Samuel grins at him, sharp-toothed.  "Honestly?  I think you're a slam-dunk meal.  Or whatever the hockey equivalent is, I suppose.  I'm gonna be living off this deal for _years_.  No offense, but you're a damned moron.  I think breathing so much Earth-air damaged your brain.  I mean, that was what I was counting on when I pitched you the wager, but still.  Wow.  Did you forget I didn't make you actually human?  You're still demon where it counts."

"I know I am."

"Yeah?  Then do you know human love is the one thing we can't touch with our grimy, sinful souls?  It's their only defense against us.  Which, coincidentally, means that _it_ can't touch _us_ either.  It didn't ever matter what you did—I won this wager the second we made it."  Samuel shrugs, leaning back in his chair.  "Still, I do have to follow the rules to the letter.  We'll go give Malkin his shot at dying for you, and then we can finally get back to Hell.  It's almost a shame, really.  No matter how this shakes out, it'll be a sad day for Pittsburgh."

Sidney, gut sinking and fist clenching the more Samuel speaks, pauses at this strange statement.  He frowns.  "Sad day?  What are you talking about?"

Samuel's head cocks.  "Our wager?  Either way, Pittsburgh loses a superstar.  Sidney Crosby or Evgeni Malkin has to die today."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Sidney growls.  "Geno—Geno isn't going to die."

"Well, yeah, probably not.  Unless you pull off a fucking miracle and manage to win the wager, so I don't think we need to worry about it, right?"

" _No_.  There was nothing in our agreement that said Geno had to die for me to win the wager.  It just said the person had to love enough to be _willing_ to die.  There was no mention of requiring follow-through."

Samuel clicks his fingers, and suddenly the second contract is there on the table in front of Sidney, his own human signature staring back at him.

"Not in those words, no.  But you'll see it says their willingness has to be proven to my complete satisfaction, and how am I supposed to be sure they're truly willing unless they go through with it to the very end?  There's plenty of time for them to change their mind when they feel their lungs stop drawing breath or their heart start to freeze in their chest."  He pauses.  "Look, Sidney, this isn't even something I was trying to sneak by without you noticing.  I actually thought you knew about this.  It's absolutely hilarious that you apparently don't, but I genuinely thought you knew."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sidney sputters.  "You can't just fucking kill a human."

"You really have been away from Hell too long.   _Your_ kind can't kill humans.  My kind has different restrictions.  We feed off life energy ended early, remember?  As long as the death is a byproduct of a deal, we can kill as much as we like."

"Wait."  Sidney can't believe how stupid he's been.  "You're going to feed today no matter what, aren't you.  Even if—even if I win, you'll just feed off Geno's death.  A meal either way."

"And you at last see the brilliance of my wager.  A little slow getting there, but you finally made it.  Congratulations."

"But—the wager's contract still doesn't outright state the person _has_ to die for you to be satisfied," he scrambles, heart beating fast, keeping his face blank.  "You can easily interpret the contract so it's enough that Geno only _thinks_ he's really going to die."

"And why in Hell would I do that?"

Sidney...has no answer for that.

A smile playing around his lips, Samuel continues.  "This has been entertaining as fuck, though.  Are you ready to go?  A quick stop in Russia, and then all this will be over.  Malkin won't even remember we were there today, my magic will take care of that.  We'll be back in Hell before you know it."

"No."

"What?"

"I said no."  Sidney is ashamed to realize his hands are trembling, but it's too late to hide them under the table.  "I...I forfeit the wager.  You're right, I didn't have a chance of winning anyway.  There's no need to test it.  Let's just...let's just finish this now."

Samuel's staring at him.  "You're not even going to try?  I mean, I'm not complaining, and you definitely wouldn't have won it anyway, but what does it hurt to at least try?"

Sidney snaps, "Are you really going to argue this?  Let's just get on with it."

"Your funeral."  Samuel's grin strays a little too far from human, betraying the facade.  "Any phone calls you want to make first, any loose ends to tie up?  Since I'm nice, I'll give you five minutes, if you like."

Sidney almost says yes.  He could call Taylor, Flower— _Geno_.  He could hear their voices one last time.  But there's something in his chest, something tremulous and unknown, that feels like it would break open if he did, and who fucking knows what would spill out of it then.  He can't—he can't handle it.  He had let himself start to hope again, terrible, ruinous hope, and the loss of it stings too deeply to trust himself.

"No, I'm ready now."  His will is updated, his fridge cleaned out, his dog at his parents' home.  Just in case.  Goodbyes will do nothing but drag this out.  "Let's just go."

"As you like."

In a twitch of magic, Samuel is no longer seated at the table.  He's now standing at Sidney's back, just out of sight but his presence clearly felt.  Sidney doesn't move.

Cool hands wrap around him.  One settles across his eyes, and one slides down to press against his sternum.

"Give me your true name," Samuel's voice sinks into his ear.

And Sidney, knowing there's nothing to prevent it, does.  It falls easily from his lips in the Old Language, sounding just a little warped and wrong in Earth's air.

Then there's a tug, a crack of overwhelming pain, and Sidney Patrick Crosby runs out of time.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Sidney doesn't make for as substantial a meal as Samuel was expecting.  It means Samuel's in a bad mood for a straight week after they get back to Hell, but it's not as though Sidney was trying to be a "bland, weak, and utterly empty feeding".  That sounds like Samuel's problem to him.  It's probably what he gets for trying to trick the system and feed from something not quite human.

"At least the deal wasn't completely wasted," Samuel muses, eyeing him.  "I still got your true name out of it, I suppose.  Feeding will be a hundred times easier with your venom working for me."

The plan seems clever: have Sidney kiss a human full of venom and fuck them into a compliant daze, and then they'll be much more pliable to Samuel's snake-ish negotiations.  Sidney can't really personally attest to the effectiveness of the plan just yet, however, because Samuel still hasn't let him back out of Hell.

"It's those fucking angels," Samuel tells him.  "They're up there combing around for you.  Looks like they mean to smite you after all, huh?  But don't worry—we'll keep you down here for a couple months, until they lighten the search.  After that it should be easy enough to pop up just long enough to get you fed and have you loosen someone up for a deal."

Sidney just shrugs.  In some ways it's easier to stay here, stashed away in Samuel's corner of Hell, rather than face Earth again.  He'll have to feed eventually, but for now?  Maybe this is better.

Ever since returning to Hell, Sidney's felt off.  His magic is back, but it's constantly slow to answer his call, sometimes refusing outright to do what he wants in a way that has nothing to do with Samuel's leash.  And his demon body is back, but it feels much heavier than he remembers it should.  Demons are insubstantial—smoky nothing-beings—and yet Sidney's form feels permanently weighted down.

Worst of all, some of his old human emotions seem to have lingered, deep beneath the return of his demonic insouciance.  Some days, out of nowhere, something within him will shift and he'll abruptly be pierced by feelings he should've left behind, emotions too intense for a purely demon body.  He tries not to stir anything up.  He tries not to think much.

Mostly, though, his hours are empty, and what that leaves is space for the mind to wander.  And obsess.  And remember.

And when he dreams it's of the ice.

Sometimes, when he can't help it, he wonders how the world reacted to the news of his death.  Did Pittsburgh mourn?  Has the team given Geno the C yet?  Probably not; it hasn't been that long, and the new season hasn't even started yet.  They'll probably wait at least until after the offseason ends.

He tries not to think of the team too much, either.  Those memories are better left dead.

Hell is too warm, since his return.  He remembers liking its heat once, but now it leaves him wishing his body could sweat.

It's going to be an eternity of this.  An eternity of nothing.  An eternity of hanging around Hell, too hot and bland and empty, segmented eventually by only short trips to Earth to feed.  He used to be able to live like this for centuries and never once had an issue with it, liked it even, but now, the thought of all that untouched time stretching out in front of him feels impossible to face.

One day down.  One week.  Then two, then three.  He subsists.

And then, in the fourth week after his human death, something strange happens.  He gets summoned.

Humans, for the large part, have forgotten how to perform proper demon summonings.  Of the watered-down, bastardized rituals that remain, scattered at the outskirts of human knowledge, very few are capable of actually pulling up a specific demon.  Most just end up tugging the current nearest demon into the circle, regardless of what type the summoner was looking for, and trapping them there briefly until the summoning runs out.

With Sidney stuck in Hell by Samuel's will, only a summoning directly aimed at him would be able to bypass his leash and pull him out.  So, understandably, he's considerably surprised when he starts to feel the prickle of summoning magic dancing across his body.  He doesn't have long to be surprised.  Darkness whorls, and then he's somewhere else.

He recognizes the smell, first.  Then the damp, frigid quality of the air.  Then the slippery chill beneath his knees.  He's kneeling on an ice rink, and for a moment, a breathless, aching moment, something in him where his human heart used to beat leaps wildly.

Then he hears Flower's voice.

"Is that him?  Did we get the right one?"

He opens his eyes.

"It's him," Geno affirms, so sweet and soft and _sorrowful_ , and Sidney—Sidney needs to know what the fuck is going on, right now.

Slowly, he rises to his feet.  He's standing in the center of Consol's ice (though he remembers it has a new name now), and around him, in a loose semicircle, what might possibly be every member of his once-was team is staring at him.  For a second, he can't speak.  This is too cruel; he's not ready to face everything that won't be his ever again.  And then awareness of his own appearance hits him, and he feels—bared.  They shouldn't get to see him like this, either.  They shouldn't _have_ to.  His hands twitch.

Then he sees the angels waiting a little to the side of the team: PK and Claude, watching him closely.

"Oh," he says, and his voice sounds wrong but he has other things to focus on now.  "That was smart."

"Sid?" Flower takes a half step forward, but Sidney can't look at him.  He keeps his eyes on the angels.

"You couldn't find me on Earth, right?  And you can't come to Hell, so you got my—you got the team to summon me up here.  That was—smart."

"Pretty much," PK smiles.  "Hey, Sid.  Good to see you, man."

"Hi."

He sneaks a look at the team, and—fuck, that was a mistake.  He makes eye contact with Flower, and when he jerks his eyes away, they land on Geno.

"Sid," Geno says.  Sidney's insides tremble.

"Hey, Geno.  They give you the C yet?  You're gonna be—you're gonna be so good."

"Yeah, that's Sid.  I'm gonna kill him," he hears Tanger mutter, but Geno only shakes his head at Sidney.

"Team still has captain."

"G," Sidney's voice wavers on the word, and he tries to mercilessly squash it down.  "You have to know I'm not coming back, right?  I—Sidney Crosby died.  That's it.  You should let them give you the C."

"What you guys think?" Geno quirks an eyebrow at the rest of the team, turning slightly, though his eyes don't leave Sidney.  "He says not captain anymore, but still try to boss around."

"Sounds like the captain to me," chimes in Shears, and a few of the others chorus in with agreements.  As they do, the summoning circle runs out of power, an unremarked upon _hiss_ , but Sidney doesn't try to run.  If the angels want to smite him this bad, maybe it's best to just let them.  At least he's seeing his team one more time.

Geno takes a step towards him, now an arm's span away.  Sidney, an average height for his kind, is only a little shorter than him like this, but a lot spindlier.

"This is how you look?" Geno asks quietly.  "This is your…first body?"

Sidney must look so strange to them.  He's the stuff of human nightmares, nothing they'd ever think could be real.

"I can look human, if you prefer.  My magic's a little off, lately, but I can probably still—"

"Don't need to.  Okay like this."  Geno takes another step, then reaches up towards Sidney's tapered horns, stopping just shy.  "Can touch?"

"If, uh, if you want.  They're not quite—solid.  It might feel weird."

Geno trails one finger along the left horn, and Sidney fights off a shiver.  He can't stop looking at Geno.

"Cold," Geno remarks curiously.  "Like—cold air, cold cloud.  Thought would be warm."

Sidney doesn't know what to say to that.  "Yeah, no, we're pretty cold, actually.  That's why Hell's so—warm.  Um."  He shifts his feet.  "So, PK and Claude, they told you?  What I am.  What they are?"

Geno's eyes are weirdly unreadable as they flick to his.  "They tell us everything.  Tell us you fall in love with hockey, make deal to come play here.  Tell us about—about _wager_."

"Oh.  I...oh.  Fuck."  He looks away.  "Geno, I...I'm sorry."

"Why?"

That pulls Sidney's eyes back.  "Huh?"

"How come sorry?"  Shit, Geno's looking a little pissed now, lips tight.  "What sorry _for_?"

"For using you?" Sidney hazards, not sure why this is a question.  "For tricking you into thinking you loved me?"  His stomach area twists.  "And for— _for lying about loving you back_ , okay?"

Geno laughs in his face.  Stunned, Sidney's eyes dart around, and he sees smiles on the faces of most of the team as well.  Rusty's leaning over to whisper something to Dales and Dumo, and Kuni's shaking his head fondly.

"What?"

"You're kind of an idiot, Sid," says Phil, and Hags snorts in agreement.

"I—what?"

"Who gets to tell him?" asks Bones, grinning.  "'Cause I call dibs if no one else has."

Flower shakes his head.  "Geno gets dibs, don't even try."

"Tell me _what_?"

"You love me, Sid," says Geno, eyes warm.  "Love me so much.  Little bit crazy how much you love, but it's okay.  I love you same."

"No I don't," Sidney says automatically.  "I can't.   _Demons_ can't.  I—I wish I could, you deserve to be loved, but I can't.  It's just how it is."

"'Just how it is,'" Horny repeats, huffing.  "Right."

"I'm not— _lying_ about this," says Sidney, bewildered.  "I'm sorry, I know you guys had this idea about G and me being—you know, but it's just not possible."

"Nope, is possible," Geno shrugs, like he's trying to act apologetic but is actually _totally full of shit_.  "You love me, like, huge amount.  And you love Flower, too, little bit different way but same amount, with whole heart.  And you love Duper, Kuni—whole team, you love everyone here, at least little bit."  He pulls a sudden mischievous face.  "Except Tanger.  Tanger, meh."  He makes a so-so hand gesture.  "Only think Tanger little bit okay."

"Yeah, fuck you, G," Tanger shoots back, but he's grinning too.  "Sid fucking adores me."

"Love Taylor," Geno continues a little softer, ignoring Tanger.  "Love parents.  Love kids you teach at hockey school.  All of this is love.  Maybe demons can't love, okay, but you can.  Show it every day."

"What?"  Incredulous, Sidney gestures to himself with a long-fingered, definitely demonic hand.  "I don't know how you missed this, but I fucking _am_ a demon.  End of story.  I was...fond of you guys while I had human emotions, for sure, but that was it.  I didn't love you, and you didn't love me.  It's not actually possible."

"Sid," PK finally speaks up, and he's got a smile lighting up his face too.  "What do you even think we're here for?"

"Bet you he thinks it's for smiting," pipes in Claude, sounding amused.  "It's always smiting with him."

Prickly, Sidney retorts, "What else would it be?  Samuel said—you've been looking for me ever since I died.  You went to the trouble of dragging the whole team into this, exposed both of yourselves as angels to them, just to summon me up here.  That's a lot of work if you just wanted to say hi."

"Well, we didn't _just_ want to say hi," PK grins at Claude.  "We also wanted to say congratulations."

"...Congratulations?"

"Yeah!  You did it, man!  I knew you could pull it off, I fucking knew it."

"Pull _what_ off?"

"You remember back when you first started learning about hockey?" Claude says.  Sidney's never noticed before what gentle eyes he has, and he isn't sure he wants the realization now.  "I came and gave you the smiting warning, and you were so confused about what was such a big deal about hockey that it deserved smiting license."

"Of course I remember."

"I was confused, too.  So I went to some of the higher ups to ask about it."  He pauses a moment, like he's ordering his thoughts.  "I learned about what usually happens when a demon becomes interested in something outside of Hell and of just surviving.  It's...usually not pretty.  They start tapping into human-brand magic—passion, creativity, _interest_ , that sort of stuff.  It starts changing them.  But they've still got their demon magic, you understand?  And they don't have any human morals to temper them.  They grow too powerful, too warped.  And if we let them keep going?  They can get strong enough to throw all the planes of existence out of balance."

"So you guys smite them before anyone can get that far," Sidney realizes.  "That's what all that was about."

"Honestly, the one warning is usually enough to chase them off, as long as they're caught early enough.  Most demons, even ones started down that path, worry too much about survival to risk a smiting for anything."

"But every once in a really long while," PK picks up, "there comes along someone like you who cares enough to risk it anyway.  And like you did, they find a way to get born human to get around the smiting.  Those are the ones who are really worth watching.  Those are the ones who have a chance to let their souls become something really awesome."

"Yeah?  What's that?"

PK bites his grin, luminous.  "Human."

Sidney laughs involuntarily.  He doesn't mean to sound quite so scoffing, but—seriously?  This is fucking absurd.

"Human?  Come on, really?  No one can change their soul structure like that, it's just—it's ridiculous."  He looks between the two of them.  "What's really going on here?"

"It's true," says Claude.  "Some demons can do it, once they lose their magic and get a little extra boost of humanity to start nudging them in the right direction.   _You_ did it.  Every decision of compassion or love or creation you ever made wrought a little bit more change on your soul.  You probably noticed you had to feed the demon way less and less the older you got, right?  That's 'cause your soul was already changing."

"And when you forfeited your chance at winning the wager because you wouldn't sacrifice Geno?" PK says, looking unbearably proud and pleased.  "That was the finishing piece!  That was the final choice that completed the process.  Your soul's all human now, buddy—just stuffed back in a demon body, for the moment."

"No."  Sidney shakes his head vehemently.  He's trying to ignore the tender, soft-eyed way Geno's smiling at him, like he's _proud_ of him, like he's actually buying this crazy story.  He doesn't know what the angels' game is, but it's just cruel of them to lie like this and make everyone think there's a chance Sidney's actually—actually something that can care about them.  "Maybe you're right, that's possible for other demons, but it's not what happened to me.  I'd have noticed something like that."  He'd have noticed— _love_.

"Shit, should've known you'd be difficult about this," Claude says, but he's smiling.  "Why do think your magic hasn't settled back in as it should?  If you can't admit to the evidence you feel in your chest when you look at your team, at least admit that your magic being off is a little weird."

"I—that's just—" Sidney doesn't have a good answer for that.  He presses on.  "Even if you're right," he says, sounding too hoarse, wetting his lips.  He darts a look away from Geno, from Flower, from fucking Tanger's knowing smirk.  "Even if you're right, it doesn't matter anyway.  There's no point to this.  I died.  I mean, my human body did.  I'm demon again now, and—whatever else, I'll be like this forever.  And—and there's Samuel.  He still has my true name.  In fact, he's probably going to notice I'm gone any minute and come take me back down.  So it wouldn't matter even if I _were_ a human soul now, because I'll just end up in Hell again, and—and that's it.  There's no point convincing me when it doesn't change anything anyway."

"Well," PK exchanges a glance with Claude.  "That's the kind of the thing.  We can't exactly just...leave you like this."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're still a mismatched being.  Your body doesn't fit your soul anymore, and that's not a situation we can leave long-term.  It's a threat to the balance, you know?  Your magic is already starting to react in weird ways as it tries to connect back into you.  And you've technically been under Heaven's jurisdiction since you very first threatened the balance with your interest in hockey, so, well, here we are.  Exercising jurisdiction."

Oh.  So Sidney was right; they're going to have to smite him after all.  That's—fair, probably.

"For fuck's sake, Sid," Claude rolls his eyes.  "We're not here for smiting.  We wouldn't use your team to summon you up here just to turn around and smite you in front of them.  Stop looking at us like that."

"Then what—?  I don't, I don't understand."

"The angel in charge of your case.  Archangel, actually.  She's been watching ever since you were born human, so she could judge what should happen to you after your deal ended.  And she ruled in your favor."

Sidney's whole throat feels frayed.  "And what does that _mean_?"

PK takes over.  "It means we're gonna put you back to how you should be.  Back in the body that matches your soul.  We're bringing you home, Sid."

"Home?"

"Up here with us, asshole," Flower speaks up, smiling ear-to-ear.  "Human."

Sidney's chest _aches_.  He rasps, "But—I died."

"Yeah, about that," PK drawls.  "You didn't, actually.  Heaven's jurisdiction, remember?  When the presiding archangel ruled to let you keep the human life you'd made for yourself, that included your body.  So when Samuel yanked you out of it, she kept it alive.  She's with it right now, actually, watching over it and keeping it in stasis for you, which is why she's not with us here.  As soon as you're ready, we'll take you there and tie you back into that body for good."

"There's still Samuel, though," Sidney says, feeling like he's scrambling to keep up.  The team keeps just smiling at him, steady and present; there are too many fond eyes on him, his chest is going to just—crack open.  They should be looking at him with fear, disgust, at the very least pity.  Not—this.  "Even if everything else, Samuel still has my true name."

"About that, too.  Did you ever, uh, actually try resisting against his will?"

"What?" Sidney says helplessly.

"Samuel.  Did you try fighting against his control?  Do something he'd told you not to?"

"I…" Sidney runs his thoughts back over the past few weeks.  "I suppose not.  What would've been the point resisting?  He has my true name."

"He has your demon name," PK corrects smugly.  "That name stopped having any real power over you the moment your soul went completely human.  Buddy, Sid, you could've told Samuel to go fuck himself anytime you liked."

"Of course you had to be difficult, though," grins Claude.  "Mope around in Hell for weeks and make us drag you out with a summoning.  Always have to be such a pain in the ass."

"I—"  Sidney can't think.  If this is real, if Samuel's hold is negated, if his human body is really waiting for him— It doesn't feel safe to believe.

But for one second, he lets himself hope, and—fuck.  It blooms immediately, snaking like vines through his chest, like weeds.  He's going to rip apart.

"And you decided to just—tell my whole team.  Everything," he chokes out, scrabbling for something else to say.

"Well, honestly," PK answers, "we were only trying to tell one or two of them.  Just so we could have a human to perform the summoning, since our magic interferes.  But they, uh, strongly expressed the opinion that it was the sort of thing the whole team should be told.  So, here we are.  We brought you a whole welcoming committee.  Pretty great, right?"

"You're ours, Sid," Tanger interjects, leaving no room for argument.  "Our teammate, our captain, our friend.  That doesn't fucking change just like that.  And we're not going to let a fucking Flyer do anything but bring you back where you belong."

"We love you," Geno murmurs, his fingers brushing lightly to Sidney's.  "Everyone care so much.   _I_ care so much.  But, listen," he drops his voice even lower, intimate and warm.  "If not want to date is okay, still love, still friends.  Okay?"

"I'm not going to date the whole team," Sidney protests weakly, deflecting, trying and failing to ignore the way his chest is _squeezing_ , and Geno laughs.

"Not whole team," he agrees.  "But when you back in right body, maybe we talk, okay?"  He somehow sounds hopeful still, after everything, and Sidney makes himself look at him, really look—at his kind-soul eyes, at the heart he wears so obviously, at the companionship they've shared for so long.  He thinks about the way his chest likes to turn warm and quiet when Geno's near, and the way his body seeks to lean in closer to his side.  He makes himself take a breath.

"Geno," he says, and it's mostly steady.  "I—okay.  Okay.  If this all is true, if I'm really coming—coming back, then yeah.  We can talk.  But you should know, I—I already gave you my true answer."  He makes himself hold Geno's gaze unflinchingly.  "If you're serious about still wanting it."

It takes a moment, but he sees when Geno gets it by the way his eyes light up with perfect, glowing happiness.

"Still want," he says, and finally Sidney's not the only one here to sound hoarse.  "Still want.  We'll talk, okay.  I still want."

"Okay.  Good.  We'll talk, then."

"We're gonna talk, too," Flower says cheerfully.  "You think you can get away with just having a heartfelt one-on-one talk with Geno?  Think again, fuckface.  I got a whole list of things I'm gonna say to you, so be ready."

Sidney can't help smiling at him, though he knows in this body the dark, wide slash of it is probably more disturbing than anything else.  Sure enough, Flower blinks at him, looking a little taken aback.  But then Flower's own grin broadens, and he says, "God, still can't believe this is real."  He pauses and, smirking, adds, "We always knew you were a demon on the ice, but this is taking it a little far, don't you think?"

It's Sidney's turn to blink, taken aback.  That was...a joke?

"That was bad," Dales says, lips twitching.

"Okay, okay.  Real question," Flower continues blithely, "is why we haven't been crushing New Jersey all these years.  Shouldn't we've had an edge with an actual devil on our side?"

Several disgusted noises follow this utterance, which only makes Flower's grin more smug.  Sidney's chest tightens happily.

"Terrible," Kuni says flatly.  "I'm actually angry about how terrible that joke was."

"Hey, hey," Flower raises his hands.  "At least no one can say Sid's not a hell of a hockey player, right?"  That draws actual groaning, and Flower cackles.  "I can do it in French, too, if you like."

"No," several people chime in, a few adding threats to show their sincerity, and in the ensuing noise and distraction Geno leans down closer to Sidney.

"Would have done it," he says for Sidney's ear only.  "If you asked, if you needed.  Would have done it for you."

"Done what?" Sid murmurs back, but then it strikes him that Geno's talking about the _fucking wager_.  "Fuck.  G, no.  Just— _no_."

"I know, not need anymore.  But I want you to know, love you that much, even as friends.  I love you enough to do, if you need."

This is exactly why Geno deserves someone who wasn't born in fucking Hell.  He just has too much love in his heart, generous and earnest and tender, and the messy overflow sometimes spills out into grand gestures that don't quite hide how fucking vulnerable and hopeful he leaves himself.  He should be with the type of person who wouldn't ever take advantage of that.

But if he wants Sidney, if he's sure—Sidney had better just make sure he becomes that person.

"I love you," Sidney says, and maybe it's not possible and maybe it is; either way he means it as much as he's able.  "I want to play hockey with you forever."

Geno's answering smile splits his face.

"All right, Sid, you ready?" PK asks, breaking the bubble, and the team quiets and turns to look at Sidney.  "It's almost time."  Sidney swallows.

"This is on a time limit?"

"Well, not exactly," PK admits with a smile.  "But there's someone who's getting pretty antsy to see you."

"...Who?"

"Not really my thing to tell, sorry.  You'll see, though."

Confused, Sid glances at Geno, but Geno just grins at him and doesn't explain either.

"And I'll get my human life back?  Everything?"

"You can slip right back in as if you weren't ever gone," says Claude.  "As far as the world's concerned, you've just had a little more reclusive end to your summer."

PK says, "So—are you ready?"

"Come home, Sid," Geno breathes.

As if Sid needs convincing.  If everything the angels has said is true, if this isn't just some elaborate cruel joke, then they really will have to smite him if they want to keep him from grabbing onto this chance with everything he has.

"I'm ready.  I don't even care if—  Yeah, I'm ready.  How are we doing this?"

"Pretty simple swap.  Claude and I are gonna pull your soul out of this body, take it to your human one, pop you in.  You'll be a bit weak for a day, but after that you should be good to hit the ice, run a marathon, whatever you like."  PK winks.  "Have life-affirming sex, if that's your thing."

"Where's my human body now?"

"Here in Pittsburgh, at your house.  We figured the rink was the strongest place to perform the summoning, but we've got your body set up comfortably in your own bed, waiting for you.  We'll take you straight there."

"Team come see you soon," Geno adds.  "We give you little time first for rest, though, and for talk with important person."

"Seriously, talk with _who_?"

"You'll see.  Everything okay.  We'll come soon, okay, keep you company."  He takes a step away, giving one last stroke to Sid's finger before he goes.  "See you soon."

"You better not do anything funny to Sid's soul while you've got it," Tanger tells Claude, but he doesn't look honestly worried he'll will try to pull something.

"Yeah, yeah.  C'mere, Sid, this shouldn't be too bad," Claude says.  "We'll be a lot gentler than Samuel was, anyway."

Sidney doesn't care about the pain if it's what it takes to get him back.  He nods and steps closer to the two angels.  PK gently places his fingertips on either side of Sidney's eyes, almost like blinders but at least not covering his vision completely, while Claude steps around behind Sidney and puts his hands on his sternum.

"We're all really proud of you, Sid," PK says quietly, his smile much louder than his voice.  "See you out there on the ice, okay?"

Sidney nods.  Then he feels a tug, a gradual, sliding pull, and the last thing he's aware of is the knowledge of his demon body crumbling away beneath him into ash.

 

When he opens his eyes, Taylor's smiling down at him.

"Hey, you," she says softly.  "Welcome home."

Though she's doing a pretty good job hiding it, he knows her well enough to recognize the thread of nervous tension in her.  He's confused at first.  He glances around the room for a clue—his own bedroom in Pittsburgh, the gentle evening sunlight filtering through the blinds—but they're alone, and there's nothing in here that should make her nervous.

Except him.

"Oh.  They told you too," he realizes, trying to sit up.  He doesn't get far; she's got a hand on his shoulder like she'd anticipated him doing just that.

"Take it easy," she says, "you'll want to give everything a chance to settle in before you jump up.  Just a few minutes."

He complies, sinking back into the pillows, and she releases his shoulder.  "Okay, yeah.  But I need to say—you know I'm not going to do anything to hurt you, right?" he tells her earnestly.  "You don't need to be scared of me."

"Duh.  You're like, the least scary person I've ever met."  But she's not quite meeting his eyes.

"Taylor."

Finally she looks straight at him.  Something in his thoughts shifts just a little to the right, and—oh.  Oh.

"They didn't actually tell you, did they," he says.  "PK and Claude.  They didn't tell you what I am."

"No, they didn't."

"They didn't need to.  You already knew.  The whole time."

"Yeah.  I already knew."

He has to swallow, and if his voice sounds croaky at least he has the excuse of his body having sat in stasis for a month without his soul.

He says, "You always looked completely human.  I would have noticed…"

"I had special license to fully hide my grace from you.  Since I was…"

"Since you were the one judging my case," he finishes.  "Oh, god—" he cuts off and winces guiltily the second the last word leaves his mouth.  "I mean, gosh?  Sorry."

She grins, but it's still weak.  "You've blasphemed much worse than that in front of me.  Don't sweat it."

"So all this time, you've—"

"Yeah."

"That doesn't really seem—unbiased," he manages to say.  "Having my own sister judge.  Not really impartial."

"Well, yeah, that's kind of the idea.  I care about you because I was close enough to see who you really are.  That's the whole point of putting me in as your sister."  She looks at her hands, but her jaw squares stubbornly, bravely.  "Are you mad at me?"

He stares.  "Why would I be mad at you?  For ruling to let me keep living?"

"For hiding what I am from you.  I don't want you to feel like our relationship has just been—a means to judge your case, or whatever.  It's been really important to me.   _You've_ been really important.  I'm so proud you're my brother."

"Shit."  He tries to sit up again, but subsides when she looks away from her hands to glare at him.  "Taylor.  I'd be a terrible hypocrite if I were mad at you for that.  And—thank you.  For giving me a chance to come back."  Honesty comes easily, here.  "I'd thought it was the end for me.  I thought I'd never see everything I'd come to—to love, ever again."

"Well.  What's the point of being an archangel if you don't get to swoop in with deus ex machina moments like this every so often, right?"  She swallows tightly.  "You're welcome," she says in a quieter tone.  "But seriously, it was your doing.  It was your choices that changed your soul.  I just made the easy call to exercise our jurisdiction and override the deal."  She pulls a face suddenly.  "I wanted to smite Samuel, too, but I couldn't get clearance for that.  Apparently, being an obnoxious slimeball isn't justifiable cause to risk the balance with a smiting.  Totally ridiculous."

He smiles, and he can feel it's the crooked one his human body always preferred.  "Well.  Thank you.  And—wait."  He pauses, gut tightening.  "Are you leaving?  Now that my case has been resolved, does that mean they're calling you back to Heaven?"

Taylor shakes her head, and Sidney relaxes.  "No.  I've gotten permission to finish off my Earth-shift, so you're stuck with me.  If that's okay."

If the angels have been honest, then Sidney is completely human right now, body and soul.  If they've been honest, he's got the whole of his remaining human life ahead of him.  He knows he's going to mess things up, he's going to fuck up and hurt people sometimes, but this today, here with Taylor, he thinks he knows how to get right.

"Taylor."  He waits until she makes eye contact before he says, "I love you a lot.  You—and our relationship—have been really important to me.  I'm so glad I got the chance to have you as my sister."

Her face cracks into her familiar wide smile.  "Yeah?  I love you a lot, too.  So does this mean you've finally admitted you know how to love?"

He smiles.  "I guess it does."

"Good.  'Cause, uh, you've got a whole team of guys who're waiting for you to tell them that and back up all the earnest eye contact you've been giving them on the ice over the years.  And I'm pretty sure you know who's first in line."

He sighs, but it's not an unhappy one.  "Flower."

"Yep."

"Are they here right now?"

"Nah, I sent them home, told them you'd see them tomorrow.  You took about an hour to wake back up.  How're you feeling?"

"Tired," he admits.  "Kind of like the first day after being sick."

"Yeah, that's pretty normal for this sort of thing.  You'll be back to normal by around noon tomorrow."

A thought occurs to him.  "Do mom and dad…?"

"They don't know anything.  I...maybe used my magic a little bit these past few weeks to make it so they didn't think it was weird you weren't around.  Just so they didn't worry.  We weren't expecting you to be squatting in Hell so long."  She gives him a fond look.  "Idiot."

"I wasn't doing it on purpose."

"That might make it more stupid."  She pauses, a careful expression crossing her face.  "Are you going to miss it?  Hell.  You won't ever be able to go back."

He laughs.  He can't help it.  "Not even a little bit.  You've never been, right?  Angels can't.  Hell is just...a million hiding places.  It's safe, if you're smart, and it's warm, but that's it.  There's nothing really to miss."

"Okay.  Good."

"Yeah."  He looks down at himself.  "So, can I get up yet?  I feel okay."

"Yeah, you're good.  Just nothing too strenuous today."

He sits up, relishing the stretch and pull of muscle, then carefully climbs to his feet.  It's little wobbly, but that passes.  He raises an eyebrow at her.

"Do you have any of your gear here with you?"

She laughs and stands as well.  "Don't even try.  No shooting practice until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest."

"I meant for tomorrow," he says innocently.

"Sure, I totally believe you.  C'mon, let's get you some food, yeah?  You're probably hungry."

"Starving," he agrees.  He opens his arm, trying and likely failing to make it casual.  It doesn't matter, though; she steps into it immediately and squeezes him in a hug.

"I'm really proud of you," she mumbles into his shoulder.  "I've always been proud of you."

"I don't know if it means anything to you," he says into her hair, "but I'm proud of you too."

"It definitely does."  She squeezes him once more then pulls away.  "Come on.  I've got a new recipe for chicken soup I want to try out on you."  She gives him a twinkling smile.  "It's absolutely heavenly."

He rolls his eyes, lips curling up.  "You should never be allowed near Flower."

"I should _always_ be allowed near Flower."

Smiling, they, slightly awkwardly, bumble towards downstairs together.  Sidney knows part of their banter is an automatic reaction to hide the way they're both processing, to deflect from the intimacy of seeing each other better now, but it still feels good—natural.  It strikes him that, in a way, he feels more kinship with her now than he ever did before.  Even though they're from opposing ends of the spectrum, the both of them are beings of a make not quite Earthly.

Taylor is an angel.  Fuck.  He's going to be processing that one for a while.

"So basically," he tells her as they clomp down the stairs, "if I don't get a miracle in a bowl here I'm going to be disappointed, you know that, right?  After claiming it's heavenly and everything."

"You laugh," she says over her shoulder, "but you should take a look at my résumé first.  Have you ever saved a small kingdom from starvation with magical soup?  Didn't think so."

"Nope," he admits.  "You'll have to tell me that story sometime.  I have, however," he adds blandly, "fucked someone so well he decided not to call the war council to go invade that neighboring tribe after all.  Does that count as a miracle?"

"Incidental good deed.  Points for luck and style," she says as they spill into the kitchen.  "Sorry, Sid.  I think the only official miracle you've got under your name is the Vancouver goal.  But keep trying!"  She grins and points him to the table.  "Sit down.  I'll let you help me chop if you promise not to get too exuberant about it."

He lowers himself into a chair, affection threading his chest.  She starts digging into the cupboard, humming under her breath.

There are still details that will need to be dealt with, eventually: a team to check in with, to see how they're really handling the reality of what he is; several long overdue discussions with some of his closest friends; and he needs to find his skates and make sure no one messed with them while he was in Hell.  But he can worry about all that later.  Here right now, it's easy to believe everything's going to be all right.

 

Geno comes by early the next morning.

He lets himself into the kitchen while Sidney and Taylor are arguing about coffee roasts, and he grins when he sees them.

"So not even angel magic enough to keep Crosby hair tidy in mornings?" he says to Taylor.  "Good to know."

Taylor cheerfully flips him off and picks up her coffee.  "I'm going upstairs for a bit.  Sid, remember you're still not cleared for strenuous activity!" she throws at him as she goes.

"Feeling okay?" Geno asks, taking the chair Taylor vacated, next to Sidney.

Sidney nods.  "Feeling a lot better from yesterday.  I, uh," he looks down at his mug, but makes himself look back up at Geno to finish.  "Thank you.  For your part in everything.  And for—everything.  Do you want coffee?"  He's hoping Geno says yes, to give him something to do, but Geno shakes his head.

"Glad I can do anything.  Sid, when Giroux tell us you're gone, in _Hell_ , I almost die.  So scared for you, my heart almost—" He cuts off, voice sounding too tight to continue.  Sidney can't do anything but reach over and clutch the top of his hand on the table.

"I'm sorry.  G, I'm so sorry."

"I know.  Don't blame you for— Just, you know, little bit scary."  Geno twists their hands until their fingers are laced together.

Sidney swallows.

"So, uh.  That talk."

"Want talk now?  Can wait, if need to."

"You've done a lot of waiting for me."

"Sometimes waiting is important.  I'm not mad about wait, Sid.  Already lots of good years with you while wait."

"And you're really sure?" Sidney asks, studying him.  "I'll believe you if you say yes, I just—I just need to make sure you've thought this through and are sure you want this.  With me.  I'm not really—well, you know what I am."

"Yeah, know exactly what you are.  You're bossiest captain, always take care of team.  You're good brother, go to Taylor's games, make time for her.  You're best hockey player in world, hardest worker, most—devote.  You're my best friend for so long."  He grins.  "And you're little bit stubborn.  Just sometimes."

"Only every so often.  Really infrequently."

"Exactly," Geno nods.

"You're my best friend, too."

Geno gives him a skeptical look.  "Flower know you tell me this?"

"Flower's my...other best friend.  The one I don't want to date."

"But want to date me," Geno prompts, and Sidney can't stop his smile.  He squeezes Geno's hand.

"I really do."

Smug as fuck, Geno squeezes back.  "Good.  I'm say yes too, okay, I'm sure.  Tomorrow okay?  I make you dinner.  Maybe we watch movie, cuddle on couch.  Maybe you talk about LA defense for two hours, I tell you all ways you're wrong."

"Okay, yeah.  Tomorrow."  He frowns.  "But I'm not wrong about the Kings.  You know their system relies too heavily on—"

"Hey, save for tomorrow night," Geno interrupts, looking unmistakably fond.  "Date talk is for date."

Sidney huffs, rolling his eyes.  "Sure, G."

"Okay, good."  He toys a little with Sidney's fingers, fiddling and stroking.  "Want to ask something, before tomorrow.  Doesn't change anything for me.  You say before—no kissing.  Was this because you don't want?  Or about demon thing?  And sex, you like, or no?"

"No, I think I like kissing," Sidney says.  "I couldn't kiss because of my venom, but there was Jack, and PK and I—point is, I've had a little experience with it as a human, and I'm pretty sure I like it.  Um, with sex, I guess I don't really know if I like it?  It wasn't something that was exactly ever optional, in either direction.  But...we could find out?"

"You sure?" Geno checks, looking serious.  "Okay either way.  Want to be with you either way."

"I want to try.  We'll go from there, but I want to try."

"Okay."  Geno pauses, then asks, "Jack?  PK?"

"Yeah."  Sidney pauses too.  "You're not...upset about that, are you?  Because that's not—I mean, you know the incubus part, right?  I've had a lot of sex with a lot of people."

"No," Geno shakes his head immediately, "not jealous, this not about that.  Just want to make sure Jack and PK were good for you.  You wanted, with them?"

"Oh.  Yeah, I wanted to kiss, with them.  Well, Jack was kind of an accident, and I was young, and the whole thing kind of got overshadowed by freaking out about accidentally getting him with my venom."  Geno's eyebrows shoot up, and Sidney explains, "It was okay, that was actually when I first met PK.  He came and fixed everything.  So kissing Jack wasn't actually that great, overall, but only because of my venom."

"And PK?"

"PK was great.  When we were in Sochi he asked if I wanted to try kissing since he's immune to my stuff.  It was really nice."

"Good."  Geno's other hand is cupped around their laced hands now, and he's soothing his thumb along the side of Sidney's.  "I'm glad was good for you."

Sidney bites his lips.  "We could kiss now, if you want?"

Geno draws their hands up to his mouth and, not breaking Sidney's gaze, slips a small kiss to their joined fingers.

"There," he says.  "Kiss."

"Geno."

Geno does it again, his eyes dark and warm.  Something sweet and shivery unfolds through Sidney's bones.

"G."

"Tomorrow," Geno says, and his eyes flick briefly to Sidney's lips.  "Kiss you tomorrow."  He wets his bottom lip, and Sidney can imagine how it might feel, lush and generous.  It's intriguing.

"Why not _now_?"

Geno rests their hands back on the table, wearing a small grin like he knows he's being a bit of a shit and is enjoying it tremendously.  "Sometimes waiting is important."

"Is this revenge for something?" Sidney asks suspiciously, and Geno's eyes laugh.

"This is first lesson of kissing, Sid—"

"I _know_ how to kiss, I've kissed more people than you can count—"

"Okay, first lesson of _enjoy_ kissing: little bit anticipate is good."

"I enjoyed kissing PK, and he didn't make me 'anticipate' anything," Sidney prods, a trifle a grumpily, and Geno just pats his hand.

"Good.  You get kiss two different ways, lots of experience for you.  This way is like cooking, little bit.  Can't take out of oven too early."

"I think I could change your mind," Sidney says consideringly, because whatever Geno says, he knows things about kissing that could make Geno absolutely fall apart, and he thinks if he tested them out right now Geno wouldn't actually complain.

Geno raises an eyebrow, challenging.  "Yeah?"

Sidney nods.  "Yeah."  He pulls Geno's hands up to his mouth and presses a kiss of his own there.  "Maybe I'll show you a little of what I mean..."  He drops another on the side of Geno's hand, and then one more lower, almost on his wrist.  Geno's breath catches.  Sidney looks up and meets his eyes steadily.  "Tomorrow.  And...we can figure the rest of it out from there."  Gently, he lowers their hands back down.

When Geno smiles, it's blinding.  "Okay," he says, tucking his knee in against Sid's under the table.  "Tomorrow."

If Geno wants to wait, Sidney can wait.  They can savor this.  They have all the time in the world these days.

Sidney's not going anywhere.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Blood from a Stone by Withershins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359059) by [brightnail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightnail/pseuds/brightnail)




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